A Pact of Ice and Fire
by TheHoneyBadgerNight
Summary: In order to return magic and dragons to the world, a pact has been made, a bride of Fire for the king of Ice. Rhaegar/OC/Night's King
1. Chapter 1

The man held the body of the baby dragon as if it were his own child, weeping and wailing with loss. It was the size of a hen at best, frail and withered scales covering the creature that lived and died in pain from the moment of his birth, lungs underdeveloped, never breathing flame. Curling the limp corpse closer to his own beating heart, the man screamed in grief, this was not the legacy he was promised.

"My lord, the lady is in the birthing chamber." The servant spoke with shaking breathes, his grip on High Valyrian poor compared to the Low version he was raised speaking before he entered his master's service. The lord ignored his words as if they were never spoken, gripping the body of the limp dragon still.

"Do you not see what I hold in my grasp?" His affluent speech was riddled with anger, "The _last of the dragons,_ our last egg, hatched and withered!"

"You were warned, Lord Belaerys, but you did not listen." The crone appeared without a shadow, wrinkled hands pointing to the lord and the creature in his arms, "The pact of Ice and Fire must be made for magic to remain."

"You witch!" Lord Belaerys snarled, grief and rage swirling in him as he rose, dropping the pathetic body at his feet as he glowered at the old woman, "I took you into my home, believed in your visions even after they led to a king's ruin! I should have left you in Summerhall to burn!"

"Yet your sight allowed you to live, to see that the future is dim without ice to temper the flame." The crone replied dryly, stepping forward to reveal milk white eyes, unfocused yet knowing, surrounded by scars brought from burning alive.

"I have no bride to give to him." The lord replied sorrowfully, his eyes cast downward, below the tower that they stood in, where his wife screamed with pain as she birthed their heir. "I have taken her for my own."

"Your sister may be wed, but your daughter is but a babe, freshly born into your house." Her voice was brittle, cracking like wood in a hearth, but her mouth formed a knowing smile. The lord of Belaerys shivered at the thought.

"She is birthing a girl." He smiled slightly at the thought of a little daughter with silver hair and her mother's smile. "Aelora is having a girl." Valarr grinned to himself at the idea, but grew cold at the wood witch's proposition.

"The pact has been made, a bride of Fire for the king of Ice." The crone reminded, "Only then, will magic breath life into the dragons once more."

Valarr wiped his tears with the back of his sleeve and stood to his full height, "Boy, take the hatchling and cremate it, lay it to rest with the others." The servant scrambled forward, not daring to voice his displeasure at the feeling of the cold scaled creature in his arms as he took it to be burned and it's ashes spread with the other failed attempts of hatching a dragon that would survive long enough to breathe flame.

The lord turned to the old, burned woman, "I will honor the pact signed by my ancestors, and shall provide a dragon bride for the Night's King." The room suddenly felt warm, the fire in the hearth roaring to life before dying just as quickly, leaving a pregnant pause in the flame's wake.

A babe's cry filled the silence, and the crone smiled in triumph.

A/N:

Just a little thought I had, if this gets enough buzz, I'll continue it

Basically what would happen would be:

-Rhaenys Belaerys is a Valyrian noblewoman in Essos who is sent to Westeros under the pretence of marrying Rhaegar, when in reality is there to travel beyond the wall, and wed the Night's King in order to return magic to the world


	2. Chapter 2

Rhaenys was the sole child of Valarr and Aelora Belaerys, the lord and lady of their house, and the last members of a once noble line of the great Valyria. She was raised to keep her head held high and wear her dresses unsoiled and tightly fitted with displays of wealth and heritage emblazoned upon the silks and lace, yet as she stood at the docks of Ellyria, the island keep she called her home, she did not feel like the last daughter of Belaerys. Her mother stood with unshed tears in her eyes as she kissed her only child on both her cheeks, careful not to wrinkle her dress in their tight embrace. "You shall be Queen, my child." Aelora's voice caught with emotion as her fingers shook, looking beseechingly to her husband, she murmured the words that haunted Rhaenys's childhood, "The bride of Fire for the king of Ice."

The young woman had grown up hearing the whispers, of the prophesy that refused to be ignored. House Belaerys had survived the doom of Valyria by sheer chance, a second son being fostered with the Targaryens at the time they made their grand escape. While Valyria laughed at Daenys the Dreamer, Rhaenys's ancestor allowed his son, Aryx, to follow the Targaryen maiden in hopes that the fostering would result in a betrothal. Yet when Daenys wed her brother when Aryx refused to settle within Westeros, he left Dragonstone and flew his dragon through the Free Cities, touring them with the idea in mind to find himself a beautiful foreign bride to replace the Valyrian one he had lost, yet instead found himself amidst the chaos that befell the land when the great freehold of Valyria fell to the Fourteen Flames.

With fear of reprisal within the calamity that consumed the newly created Smoking Sea, Aryx fled first to Dragonstone, where he begged the forgiveness of Daenys as he confirmed her prophetic dream of the Doom, only to find her lips speaking of the future once again. ' _Magic will die without a bride of Fire for the King of Ice, go and make the pact with the Night's King.'_

It was a story told to Rhaenys before bed more often than not, yet the ending always gave her chills. Her mother's voice echoed in her mind as she retold the story every night, ' _So Aryx flew beyond the great wall of ice and kneeled before the throne of Winter, promising a bride of Fire in exchange for magic everlasting, and he returned to Ellyria to build his keep and produce a daughter for the Night's King to take as lady wife.'_ Only, Aryx only had sons, who only had sons, who only had sons. For three hundred years, no female progeny survived in house Belaerys past infancy, and with every daughter's death, their dragons grew smaller, lived for less time and breathed less flame. Rhaenys was born the day the last dragon died, and her name day was always a melancholy affair.

"Rhaenys, you will do your duty, and make our house strong again." Her father's voice broke her out of her reminiscing, and she blinked as she registered her father's strong build before her. He was a soldier, strong and wide, with his silver hair in a warrior's braid, tied back with a leather band, dark purple eyes harsh and unyielding. Where her mother was shaking, he was secure. "You know our words."

"We stand above all." Rhaenys recited dutifully, her blue eyes expressionless as the wooden boards of the dock creaked below them. Slowly, the ship that would take her to her doom would leave the harbour of her home, delivering her into Westeros.

"Including the red dragons." Valarr was a prideful man, no matter the blows dealt to him in life. Despite the crown and reach of seven kingdoms, the Lord Belaerys would always see himself as better than the Targaryens, simply because his house was the last to possess living dragons by nearly fifty years. "You will convince the silver prince that you are meant to be his, but your bridegroom lies beyond the Seven Kingdoms, with a pact that _must_ be honored."

Rhaenys said nothing as her mother began to sob at the words Valarr spoke, her guilt visible as she shook with tears. "It is alright mother, I will bring power to our house with my union." It was what she had been groomed for her entire life, yet the words seemed hollow even to her own ears. With a deep curtsy to her father and one last embrace with her mother, Rhaenys boarded the ship destined to leave Slaver's Bay and embark to Westeros, where her destiny awaited.

A/N:

Another short bit, setting up characters and what not. Next one will be Rhaegar's POV, and I'm thinking I'll set it up with Rhaenys attempting to do as her father told her, only finding herself falling for Rhaegar, making it Night's King/OC/Rhaegar, and then leave it up to the votes of readers with who she ends up with. Anyone who reads my other fic, I am still working on it as well, and this one will have a more likeable Rhaegar haha, I promise.

Also, there isn't much on house Belaerys online, and they technically don't survive the doom, so I'm fluffing their history a little bit. And there is a reason why they only have sons (like, daughters were born, but did not live). For this fic, I'm going with a cool little page I found on the house, so their words are "We Stand Above All" and their sigil is a black dragon on a grey/silver field.


	3. Chapter 3

Rhaegar Targaryen stood at the docks of Dragonstone, where his father's cousin, Steffon Baratheon was set to deliver his bride to him. His mind thought back to the times of his ancestor, Daenys the Dreamer, and if she would approve of her progeny wedding into house Belaerys, the only other family of dragon riders to survive the doom. The Maester of Dragonstone at the time of it's birth wrote of Aryx Belaerys as a man of considerable strength and pride, who failed to woo the Lady Daenys during his eight years of fostering and returned nearly three years after he left to confirm the vision that led the Targaryens to flee with their dragons. He rode his own beast, a female dragon who had a clutch of eggs while settling in what is now known as Slaver's Bay, causing him to build his keep and port there, making a small fortune in trading of all kinds, from slaves to silks.

House Belaerys was more prideful than the Lannisters, down to their house words, _We Stand Above All,_ so much haughtier than the Targaryen's simple and direct, _Fire and Blood._ It was part of the reason the two houses never spoke to one another, and his house called Velaryon kin over them. Yet the only other Valyrian house in Westeros held no maidens of marrying age, unless he wished to wait for the Lady Viserya to bleed, but she was a girl of six, so his father turned his eye across the narrow sea for a bride, snubbing Tywin Lannister and his golden haired daughter once again.

The ship that carried his bride was a large one, the flagship of the Stormland's fleet, nothing but the best for his future lady wife. Lord Steffon and his wife, the Lady Helaena had departed from court a few moons ago, where they sailed to the free cities to meet the ship carrying Lady Rhaenys from her home keep and from there, they returned to Westeros. His Kingly father trusted no one else but his own kin for such a journey, and Rhaegar was thankful that both the lord and lady had excellent sea legs, and a love of the open water that was a trait in Baratheons and their vassals. Slowly, the small blur on the horizon became a glorious ship with golden and black flags, Baratheon colors, a mermaid with large breasts and an alluring smile decorated the helm, elaborately carved directly into the wood. As the ship glided into the dock, Rhaegar spied the forms of the nobles upon the docks.

Sailors shouted commands in the common tongue, but Rhaegar's ears picked up the sweet lilt of high valyrian coming from a feminine voice. There, at the bow of the ship, stood his bride, and she was more beautiful than he imagined. Maesters spoke of the otherworldly beauty that came from Valyrian blood, the magic in the connection from dragons, but never had he seen it so purely. House Belaerys had never once wed it's heir to a bride not of Valyrian blood, leading it to near extinction, Rhaenys the final daughter of the once great house. Her hair was a pure silver, a glowing white in the afternoon sun. Her eyes ensnared him as he gazed upon her, a shade of turquoise blue he could never hope to paint, with lips a pale pink, curving upwards in a teasing smile. She was a slip of a woman, small, delicate, graceful, wrapped in a cloak of silver with a great roaring dragon on her back, breathing fire onto the hood, rubies glittering in the light. As she walked down the gangplank towards him, her cloak opened to reveal a dress so sheer he could clearly see every dip and curve her body had to offer to him, and he was enchanted by the creature before him.

"Your grace," Rhaenys dipped into a low curtsy, revealing more of her figure as the cloak fell back on her shoulders, and Lady Helaena looked positively scandalized as she rushed forward to pull the cloak better around the young lady. "I am Lady Rhaenys, the last daughter of Belaerys, it is a great honor to be your bride." The words sounded rehearsed, but her voice was lyrical, unused to the common tongue.

"Welcome, Lady Rhaenys, Westeros welcomes you." He replied in High Valyrian, enjoying the way her eyes lit up at his proper pronunciation of the old tongue. "I welcome you."

Lord Steffon walked forward then, breaking the spell as he shook the prince's hand after bowing himself, "Your grace, your father will be pleased with your bride, I hope." His black beard had a slight tinge of grey to it, and Rhaegar saw the tiredness in the Stormlord's eye.

"Aye, my lord, of that I have no doubt." Rhaegar grinned at his distant cousin, "I release you and your lady wife, my lord, to return to your keep and your children, while my bride and I ride for the Red Keep." Steffon smiled at his prince, bowing once more as he stepped to his wife's side.

"Thank you, my prince." Lady Helaena spoke, turning to curtsy to his fiance as well, "May you enjoy court, Lady Rhaenys." Her warm blue eyes sparkled with a hint of distress, but Rhaegar brushed it off as worry over the lady's dress.

As servants began to unload the ship carrying his future bride's belongings, Rhaegar noticed the servants of his foreign betrothed all bore marks on their cheeks, brands identifying them as slaves. "My lady, we do not condone slavery in Westeros, any slave who sets foot upon our shores is a free man."

Lady Rhaenys only laughed, her demure smile giving nothing away. "Of course, your grace. They have been given proper servants wages from the moment they boarded my father's ship to accompany me as part of my married household, they are well aware that they may leave my service at any time." Her blue eyes were alight with amusement, and for a moment he felt a fool, ' _Yes, they are free, but do they even know what freedom is?'_ He thought to himself, the sense of entitlement coming from his bride reminded him of his own family, and he briefly wondered if it were a Valyrian trait, not simply a Targaryen one.

"Of course, my lady." He replied, hiding his bitterness behind a half hearted smile. Rhaegar took her arm in his as they walked towards Dragonstone, and he informed his bride of their itinerary, "We shall stay in Dragonstone for the evening, and head to King's Landing and the Red Keep once we are rested tomorrow. It was here that our ancestors survived the doom, and the keep that keeps us thriving today."

With a charming smile, he enjoyed watching his betrothed blush slightly under his gaze. "It is a lovely keep, your grace, your Seven have blessed you with being it's lord." Rhaenys spoke eloquently, her common tongue well pronounced with the barest hint of a Valyrian accent hidden in the depths of her sweet voice.

"And one day, when I am King and you are my Queen, it shall be our son and heir who shall be the lord of Dragonstone." Rhaegar reminded her as they neared the litter and horse that would take both her and he into the keep. He guided her into the seat and in a soft voice informed her, "Your dress is lovely, Lady Rhaenys, however it can be quite chilly in the great hall, perhaps before the dinner feast, you might humor me with a Westerosi gown?"

Her cheeks blushed the brightest pink, and she ducked her head as she quickly moved her cloak to better cover herself, as shy as the maiden she was. "My father's choice in clothing, a traditional garb for ensuring betrothals, I was told." Her voice held a tiny squeak of embarrassment, and he grinned at her.

"You are lovely, Lady Rhaenys. I look forward to toasting to our betrothal this evening." Rhaegar replied easily, closing the door to her litter and hiking himself up upon his own horse. Setting off into a trot, he quickly rode towards his ancestral seat.

A small crowd of small folk from the fishing villages waited outside the gates, eager to see their new princess. He waved and smiled as they cheered upon the sight of his silver head, his pride swelling with the shouts of "Prince Rhaegar!" "The Silver Prince!" although, there were a few shouting "My Lady!" and "Princess!" as well, though they were not yet wed.

Within the gates, one of the marked servants opened the litter where Rhaenys held her cloak firmly closed around her, and the jewels of it gleamed in the light. ' _The stones on that cloak could buy a nice keep.'_ He thought dryly to himself, noticing that the display of wealth had the small folk whispering up a storm. Rhaegar knew that as the only heir to Lord Valarr, Rhaenys's dowry would leave the royal coffers overflowing with money gained through slave trade. With a demure smile and a slight wave to the small crowd, Rhaenys was whisked into the keep by a flurry of servants, while Rhaegar left his horse to a stable boy and went to speak with the castellan of the keep, Lord Viserys Velaryon, a second son and loyal ally.

They walk and talk as they make their way into Rhaegar's solar, noting the dip in the stores from tonight's feast, joking of the amount of casks of Arbor Red Lord Redwyne sent as a congratulations on his betrothal, as if wine alone could win the prince's favor. They share a mug of strong ale and discuss the basics that come with keeping the keep running, and he enjoys the razing his companion gives him about his bride, and the many children he is sure to have. Though he does not voice it, simply laughs along, he knows he is destined to have three children, two daughters and a son. One named after his wife, the other two after his own ancestors, Aegon and Visenya, for the dragon must have three heads. The last heirs of two dying lines, they would bring back the glory of Valerya through their descendants.

Time passed quickly, and Rhaegar excused himself from his friend and castellan to prepare himself for the feast that would herald the arrival of his bride to his lands. He wound his way up the Stone Drum, surprised to find a servant walking frantically from the room at the top of the tower. The serving girl was white as a sheet when she saw him, and squeaked out, "Y-your grace!" He cocked an eyebrow at her, and motioned for her to continue to speak. "It's the Lady Rhaenys, your grace, she wandered and…" The girl trailed off, her eyes looking back to where she came.

"It is quite all right, please, fetch the lady and I some wine and figs if you will." He dismissed her and walked into the chambers to which the girl had fled from. Rhaenys sat the very seat that Aegon the Conqueror once sat, her blue eyes brooding over the Seven Kingdoms, staring at the blue icy structure that mimicked the Wall. "Lady Rhaenys."

She moved with a start, clearly spooked as she instinctively curled into herself before realizing who it was. "Prince Rhaegar." Her voice was soft as silk, though with a slight shake to it. She had changed into a gown of his house colors, black velvet with red lace, clinging to her form while being of enough material to not cause whispers. She reminded him of his mother, only with a hint of exoticness that he could attribute to her strong Valyrian features, purer even than his own.

"What do you think, my lady?" He motioned to the painted table before them, "This is Westeros, the Seven Kingdoms we shall one day rule together." There was a guarded look in her blue eyes, but she smiled demurely at him nonetheless.

"It is beautiful, your grace. A shame I shall see so little of it on our journey to the Capital." She looked to him then, pink lips gracing him with a smile. "Perhaps one day, we might tour it together."

A plan slowly formed in his head as he watched her form loom over the table, taking in the miles of land that was destined to be theirs. "Many lords tour the keeps of the vassals under them, introducing his bride and their lady to them, a wedding procession, if you will. It has been many years since a Prince of the Blood toured the Seven Kingdoms, though it has been many years since a bride has been worthy of such a procession." Her eyes lit up, and Rhaenys sat up from her seat and crossed the space between them, taking his hands in her small ones.

"Truly, my lord?" She smiled brightly at him, "I would love to see the might of the North, to see the great Wall of ice, the thousand lakes of the Riverlands and the bounties of the Reach…" Rhaenys blushed, realizing she was rambling, and Rhaegar grinned, happy to please her.

"Westeros is to be your home, my lady, you deserve to see her beauty." He replied, so caught up in pleasing his soon to be wife that he did not notice the calculating gleam in her eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

Rhaenys did not expect Rhaegar to be so easily manipulated by a see through dress and battering eye lashes, though he fell into her hands with such ease that one so unversed in manipulation and feminine whiles such as herself did so with ease. Though, it was when she and her supposed betrothed reached the capital that she realized that Rhaegar was not conned into a tour of the Seven Kingdoms, but rather that he had already been planning one. And who could blame him for attempting to secretly flee from his father?

The Targaryen king fit the description her proud father had given her quite well, he was a husk of greatness, not worthy of his throne. King Aerys, the first of his name, was hideous to Rhaenys. The girl had grown up in the center of Slaver's Bay, where the Masters were descendents of Valaryia or the Summer Isles, all possessing otherworldly beauty, while the plain faced slaves were easily labelled as the lesser from more than just simple collars. Where was the blood of the dragon in the king before her? Aerys stooped down upon his throne, hair and nails long, eyes leering at everyone near him. He was no picture of beauty, just a man wracked with paranoia. Rhaegar had tried to warn her, to speak of his mother with such love and devotion, yet graze over details of his father as if he were a secondary character and not the seed which resulted in his birth.

As Rhaenys was presented to the court, she attempted to ignore the king's lustful gaze down her chest as she curtsied deeply, a trained dog doing her tricks. She knew her courtesies, to smile and blush as the king commented on her looks. ' _Beauty will attract them to you, but charm will keep them loyal'_ Her mother's advice echoed in her mind as she smiled coyly, listening to Steffon Baratheon give a detailed report of their travels to the king, who looked as if he could not care less of his cousin's words. Instead, he leered at her, drinking in her silver hair and pale blue eyes. Rhaenys chose not to answer his looks and instead studied the Queen. Like her own parents, Rhaella had wed her brother to keep the bloodline pure, though the love reflected between Valaar and Aelora was nowhere to be seen between Aerys and Rhaella. The silver Queen was beautiful, no one could deny that, although Rhaenys noted the slight creases from worry and stress that gathered about her eyes. Dressed in the silks of her house colors, Rhaella stood tall and proud beside her husband, eyes never once leaving Rhaegar's.

In the weeks spent riding to King's Landing, Rhaenys learned more and more of the royal family, both from Rhaegar's own lips and those whispered by servants. Amma, her handmaiden and a former slave from Lys, had passed on gossips of laundry maids and cooks alike, and soon Rhaenys learned that the family she traveled to Westeros under the guise of joining was cracking at the seams. Magic flowed through the veins of Valyrians, giving them strength, fertility and beauty, and house Belaerys was not the only family to suffer from the loss of it. With every generation, the yield of children had diminished, leaving stillborns and childhood death in their wake, for both Belaerys and Targaryen. ' _Our fate is a shared one.'_ She thought to herself, ' _If I fulfill the pact, perhaps a child of Rhaegar shall hatch a dragon, or perhaps it means he shall have the chance to have children at all.'_ Queen Rhaella, she learned, had been barren most of her life, giving birth to children who did not see their first name day.

Rhaenys was reminded of her own mother in the Queen, both preached to her of duty and gazed upon her with motherly affection. It was Queen Rhaella who approached her first once court was dismissed, stepping down from the dais next to her kingly husband to loop her arm with Rhaenys's and invite her for a stroll in the gardens before they had their midday meal. The heiress could feel eyes watching her, and she wondered if they were of the nobles or of the spies reporting her every move to whomever their master may be. No doubt her father had instructed a servant or two to relay information on how well Rhaenys played her part. It was almost too easy to believe that the future the court laid before her was hers in truth, that she would wed Rhaegar and become Queen, that their children would rule over seven kingdoms and be happy.

Yet the future was not so bright, and she knew that she was destined for the North, for a marriage bed of ice, not fire, so she smiled demurely and followed the queen as they flitted through the gardens. "My son tells me you both shall be leaving within a moon's turn, to tour the seven kingdoms." The Queen's voice was neutral, but her gaze held a calculating look that made Rhaenys weary. What was it the Westerosi called their plays for power? Ah yes, the game of thrones, and it seemed Rhaella played it quite well. The Queen had been groomed for her crown since birth, and the effortless steps in which she spun through the gardens made it very easily known, the Red Keep was Queen Rhaella's home, her seat of power, and she walked it with a practiced grace. Rhaenys played her part, feeling more of a mummer than a princess, and blushed with a small smile.

"I look forward to stepping upon the same soil King Aegon once conquered." Rhaenys supplied dutifully, courtesies and manipulations swirling about her mind. The dragon rulers were proud of their heritage, and Rhaenys's love for history had quickly been turned into reading the history of Westeros during her years under tutors. It was a strange childhood, one with two sets of goals in hand, to be the bride of fire and to be a bride for fire. She was raised to be poised, regal as a queen but submissive as a servant, so she played her part, staying a step behind Rhaella as they walked but a step ahead of her in their mind games.

"There is much more to Westeros than being seven kingdoms united under the Targaryen banner. Each kingdom has it's own history, it's own people and customs, and most importantly, it's own morals and source of livelihood." Rhaella informed her as they walked, and Rhaenys idly wondered if this was the queen's way of grooming her to one day take over the position, or merely a method of letting the girl know she was in over her head. "Each is held by a warden or lord paramount, some of which were kings themselves before, as you said, Aegon conquered them."

"Of course your grace, in the year of talks of betrothal between your princely son and myself, my father sought out a number of Westerosi tutors so that I would be well versed in the customs of the lands and her people." Rhaenys recited dutifully, half truth and half lie. Yes, her farce of a betrothal to Rhaegar was a year in the making, but her tutoring had always been more of a Westerosi education than that of an Essosi.

"And what did you think of the people of Westeros?" There was a test hidden in her words, and Rhaenys felt her stomach clench with anticipation, if her plan were to work, she needed to be in the Queen's good graces. "Surely they are different than what you have read about."

Rhaenys allowed their turn in the gardens towards the thicket of rose bushes to distract from the pause in her answer, giving her a moment to think her response over before giving it. "I believe what you said before is true, my Queen, the seven kingdoms are just that, seven. Because they are united under the three headed dragon banner, foreign historians lump them all together, when in reality, each has it's own set of customs, traditions and source of livelihood. I am thankful for your Maesters and Septons for serving as your continents historians, for they are of the same blood, and write of their own people most of all."

Rhaella did not speak right away, but the corners of her mouth tilted up ever so slightly, and Rhaenys felt victory burn within her. Perhaps she was a bit too eager to please, but the fate of her house rested on her shoulders, and she was desperate to fulfill her duty. "It is good of you to notice how a person writes of his own people, though when such a thing occurs, a bias is presented." The Queen reached out a hand and plucked a rose from the bush, a soft peach color with petals of satin in perfect arches. "For example, a Reachman Maester will no doubt write that Highgarden possesses the best roses in the Seven Kingdom, which would be mostly true."

"Mostly?" Rhaenys questioned, curiosity getting the better of her as she stared at the rose in the royal's hands.

"It would depend on the type of rose. Have you heard of the Glass Gardens?" The Queen's smile was secretive, and for a moment Rhaenys wondered if the woman was onto her.

"It is in the North, I believe." She replied, choosing to look at the white armor of Ser Harlan, a joke of a kingsguard in Rhaenys's eyes, for he was old and could barely keep pace with the women.

"In Winterfell, the seat of the Starks. No dragon has travelled so far north since Good King Jaehaerys, my son is rather looking forward to changing that." Queen Rhaella informed her, and Rhaenys absorbed the information silently. Rhaegar had spoken to her of their travel plans, and how they would travel north to Winterfell, travelling through blackwater rush in order to appease the Reach and stop at Riverrun, before they would cross through the Twins and onto the seat of House Stark. From there, Rhaenys would need to convince either the Starks or her betrothed to take her to the wall, where she would fulfill her duty and wed the Night's King. Pulling her from her thoughts, the Queen continued to speak, "In Winterfell, winter roses as blue as the night bloom in the Glass Gardens. They only grow in the north, but their wild beauty is known throughout the world."

"I shall ask Lord Stark for permission to bring a blue rose back to the capital for you, your grace." Rhaenys offered, but the Queen shook her head.

"No need, my dear. My son has already promised to return home with one." Though the words held good meaning, Rhaenys could not shake the feeling of dread from the comment. "Still, you shall not leave for a fortnight, giving the seamstress plenty of time to outfit you in Westerosi gowns."

Queen Rhaella wished to see her outfitted in Targaryen garb no doubt, for most of Rhaenys's wardrobe held sheer or cut out panels with glimpses of milky flesh visible, a selection of Essosi dresses meant to mark her as exotic, foreign and unattainable, yet another method of manipulation to keep Rhaegar's thoughts clouded when it came to her. Thus, she was not surprised by the second offer of Westerosi style clothing. Instead, she merely smiled and curtsied, gratefully accepting the offer of the Queen.

A/N:

Bit of a filler, sorry for that. I wanted to get them to King's Landing, so Rhaenys can have some time to see what her life would be like if she married Rhaegar. My end game is leaning more towards Night's King/Rhaenys, but if enough people ship Rhaenys/Rhaegar, I'll embed more cutesy stuff between them that gives Rhaenys a reason to defy the pact.

Next chapter will be Rhaegar speaking to his father on Rhaenys, and the future of the realm. The Defiance of Duskendale has already happened, so Aerys is mostly mad by this point.

My plan is instead of Harrenhal, Rhaegar uses Rhaenys's desire to see the Seven Kingdoms as a cover for going to the Lord Paramounts to get them to agree on a coup.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N:

Little crude at the beginning haha

Leagues beyond the wall, Craster sat within his keep, listening to the prattles of the men of the Night's Watch as they drank and flirted with his wives. The ale that he usually kept to himself, and served to them only if heavily watered down, was given freely in large casks, full and pure. The men were on their way to the Fist of the First men, where Wildlings were rumored to be gathering in large volumes, they were being sent to assess the threat, yet unknowingly passed information as they travelled.

Craster followed the commands he was given, a treaty he would obey or his way of life would be forfeit. It was almost too easy, a little ale, some warm game to chew upon and some cards to bet with, and the men opened their mouths of their own accord. "The Lord Commander received word last week, the crown prince is parading through the seven kingdoms, showing off his pretty little bride, and she requested to come to the sodding Wall of all places!" Though the man was no new brother to the watch, his Fleabottom accent rang through.

"Perhaps the Prince needs some encouragement to cozy up to the bitch, maybe she thinks a cold room will warm their marriage bed. A recruit from Dragonstone said she landed on Westerosi shores in a gown as sheer as lace!" Another taunted, earning snickers from the rest of the room.

A man with a beard dripping in foam from his ale barked out a laugh and shouted, "I'll let the dragon cunt warm my bed!" He took another swig and continued, "Those Targaryens are right pretty, even the men, I bet any Valyrian is right pretty, no matter the house."

"Where does she hail from again, Baeleria?" A drunken fool asked, "I heard they have pleasure slaves trained to suck a man's cock for days at a time."

"House Baelerys is from Slaver's Bay." The first man of the three spoke once more, "They are called the Black Dragons, since their sigil is of a three headed black dragon, and because of the slave mark given to those they enchain."

"Well, aren't you a proper Maester." The third man rebuked, "More interested in sigils and slavery than a fine dragon ass. They say the Prince's foreign wife has hips wide enough for children, but thick enough to wrap your paws around. I bet the Essosi women are wild in bed! The Silver Dragoness, they call her, the Beauty of house Baelarys, names like that have to stem from a few wagging tongues, ey? Hm, what I wouldn't do for her pretty tongue on me, I'd grab a fist full of that pretty silver hair of hers, have her big blue eyes staring up at me while she's on her knees sucking on my…."

Craster suppressed a sigh, listening to the men bicker and boast between themselves. His instructions were simple, get the men drunk and talking, report back anything of importance regarding the prince's journey north, and ensure that none were suspicious that he wished to know. He sat back and drained his mug of ale, finding the girl who served his next glass to be nervous when she approached. She bit her lip, unsure and shaking before her father and husband, no more than thirteen name days old, and his hand slapped the side of her face, causing her to cry out softly. "Get on with it girl, pour my ale in silence or speak now."

"It's Darla, mi'lord." The girl mumbled out, "She's had the babies...a boy and a girl." Even the men of the Night's Watch went silent at such words, aware but afraid to speak of such consequences of having a son born in Craster's Keep.

Craster only nodded, "Well, with winter always present, a mother can only give so much food to a child, even less to two children sharing a mother's milk…" His justification fell on deaf ears, and with the lack of noise from the men, the wail of a mother about to lose a child rang through the room. "Shut her up, will you?"

The brothers of the Watch simply stared down into their cups as the sound slowly faded, replaced with quieter hiccups and the soothing noises of another woman as she comforted the mother. The soberest of the three drained his drink and looked between his companions, "Best finish your ale, boys, it's not everyday Craster celebrates the birth of a daughter with such strong drinks. The spirits will keep your bellies warm tonight, a storm is brewing outside."

Though none knew it for certain but he, and surely his wives suspected it, the storm had been brewing since Darla went into labor, as snow storms often did when one of Craster's wives was about to birth a son. Never did a cloud appear when a girl would join their family, only when a boy would be taken from them, it was how Craster knew to be prepared for _his_ arrival.

When the men of the Night's Watch were properly asleep in the accommodations provided for them, Craster went deep into the bowels of his keep, where one of his elder and first wives waited for him, her eyes dark and her face defeated as she handed over the swaddled bundle in her arms. "Darla named her daughter Gilly, and this is Gyrard."

"There is no point in naming a child so young, let alone giving it more than a milk name." Craster scolded, barely looking down at the sleeping newborn as he walked away. His horse was already saddled, and he had ordered her to be, and he swung onto his saddle with one arm while cradling the infant in the other, riding out of the gates and towards the eye of the storm.

Deep into the forest, their usual meeting place lay between a handful of trees, their leaves leaving little snowfall on the ground where the horse walked. The roar of the storm was still in the wooded area, the snapping of twigs underfoot was the only thing to be heard, save for his own ragged breathing. The horse did not wish to step further into the clearing, as if a part of the beast recognised the danger she was in, and Craster cursed as he dismounted, walking the final ten or so paces to where a lone weirwood tree stump lay, waiting for the child. The infant woke only when Craster's warm body was no longer pressed against his, and his screams broke the silence of the clearing.

A gust of wind carried the sound, and suddenly, his breath was fogging before him, _he_ was here. Craster bowed his head, stepping away from the crying child and further towards his horse, who looked spooked enough to bolt at any moment. Shadows danced across the trees as footsteps echoed, multiple sets gnashing into the ground with every step. They hid behind the trees, menacing but faceless in the dark, only even visible through the glowing blue of their eyes.

The Night's King walked slowly forward, his face silently questioning Craster, demanding information. "It is as you said, your grace." It felt strange to call such a beast a king, but Craster did not wish to anger what once was a man, "The crown prince shall ride North within the coming moons, bringing his betrothed with him."

A crack of ice echoed, as if Craster had said something offensive, and the Night's King spoke with a brittle tongue, "And his _betrothed?"_ He spat the words as if they were a curse upon the land.

"A great beauty, at least it is rumored." Craster stumbled as he attempted to explain in a way that would please his master, "She is said to be of traditional Valaryian features, silver hair, but with blue eyes rather than the usual purple, with child bearing hips and a large chest and…" He faltered, realizing he sounded like a man describing cattle stock and not an attractive woman, even though she was one he had never met.

The King of the Others held up a hand to silence him, "When she comes to the Wall, she will be led to you, you will protect her, and you will bring her here, to me unharmed and untouched." The silent threat of what would happen if he did not comply hung in the air, and for a moment he wondered if the being before him had overheard the conversation of the brothers. The men had not seen a woman outside of the whores of Moletown in years, and the sight of a Highborn lady would no doubt be enticing to their carnal desires, and Craster silently griped over the thought of protecting the girl when he could make her his wife instead. But he was no fool, no matter how pretty the girl was, she was not meant to be his.

He pitied the poor thing, her fate was far worse.

A/N:

A little short, but I wanted to introduce the Night's King and layout how Rhaenys would get to the Night's King once she is at the Wall. As always, please review and tell me what you think and if you would like to see anything or have a suggestion.


	6. Chapter 6

Rhaegar's return to the capital was marked with a feast, and his leaving was marked with another, yet there was no merriment to be found in the great hall that evening. The last bard who attempted to play had been ordered silent by the king, who had no wish to hear "The Song of Sweet Summers" or any ballad for that matter. King Aerys wished for silence, so not a word was spoken, only the echo of scraping plates and dripping goblets. Sitting at the head table, Rhaegar sat stonily with a half glass of wine in his hand, waiting for Rhaenys to appear for dinner.

Already, the lords and ladies of court glanced from entrance to entrance, waiting for the prince's betrothed to arrive, perhaps in yet another scandalous gown. One might mistake Rhaenys for courting a Dornishman, for she enjoyed baring just the right amount of flesh. When he escorted her through the palace, her creamy shoulders brushed his palms, and she remarked on the callouses of his hands. ' _The hands of a warrior, a king, a protector.'_ The way her lips formed the words, with a hint of awe and admiration, had his heart beating wildly in his chest. He would be her warrior, her king and her protector, and she would bring the three heads of the dragon into the world.

The first course of a soup with beet broth and a meat that he suspected to be venison, though Rhaegar barely touched it in truth. His eyes stared forward, where the lower tables were being served their dishes, glancing beyond where the main entrance lie every now and again. Both the Queen and his betrothed had yet to arrive, and the King's glare became more and more stony by the minute, his temper even more frayed by the day.

It seemed Rhaenys and Rhaella had banded together, thick as thieves, chatting away in High Valyrian of wedding plans and court gossip, and his future bride opened up more and more to his family, well, himself and his mother. Viserys was barely a toddler, running about their feet, and Rhaenys played with him, but with a look of such sadness and longing that it broke his heart. He knew she yearned for children, and both of their families had struggled with fertility issues as of late, but he was determined to have the three heads of the dragon, and together they would have those children.

The stillness became more clear, as the rustles of silk upon stone were heard, and the giggles of two women as they entered the hall. Rhaenys was resplendent in a gown of blue silk, the shade of her eyes, with sleeves of the capital style, but an open neckline with daring lacing that revealed most of her shoulders and chest, with a chocker about her neck that looked to be a silver sleeping dragon. ' _The Silver Dragoness, my Silver Queen.'_ He thought to himself, watching as she curtsied deeply before his father, mimicking his mother who was already halfway to the floor.

"Apologies, my King, my future good daughter and I have lost track of time making the final preparations for their journey." Rhaegar's Mother wore a tight smile, half afraid the King might choose to lash out in an infamous fit he was quickly becoming known for, but instead he only smiled toothily.

"Of course, wife." He barked, waving them forward, to their seats. His eyes wandered over both women as they moved, and Rhaegar stared down into his bowl of soup, gripping the spoon tightly.

When they sat, the King raised his goblet of wine, and smiled, "A toast, to the wedding tour of my son, a Prince of the Blood, and his pure blooded, Valyrian wife," His face morphed into a sneer as he glanced at Rhaenys, "May they _stand above all."_

Rhaenys seemed to pale for a moment, and Rhaegar glanced between the two, silently questioning the situation. "My house words, _we stand above all._ " She supplied in a hushed whisper, and Rhaegar understood the jab, the mockery that as heir to her house, her children could claim the Island Keep of her ancestors in the Targaryen name, leaving house Baelerys to die with her.

They spent the night eating in silence, a five course meal with the only sound of scraping silverware and shouts for refills from the drunken patrons of the feast. Rhaenys seemed to drink more than usual as well, her cheeks a flushed pink as she finished a glass of sweet summer wine. It was not until the servants began to give out little pastries with sweet cream that king spoke again, this time tired of the silence. "Fetch my son's harp, if there is to be music, at least let it be good." A servant quickly complied, and when Rhaegar began strumming a tune, he was interrupted before he could begin to sing by his father once more, "Sing us a duet." He waved his hand in an upward motion, right in front of Rhaegar's betrothed, and Aerys smiled at the girl's discomfort.

"Do you know the Dance of the Dragons?" Rhaenys asked softly, surprising him that she knew of such a sad tune, but he nodded nonetheless.

"The sky it falls around us now, the sea it quivers and quakes," He began, strumming his harp to the tune of his voice, and watched in awe and she began to sing.

"Just hold me tight, lover mine, until the fire consumes as all." Her voice was light, airy as summer but sorrowful as they began to sing as one, "For as long as you are in my arms tonight, the world may never harm my love, nor death break my heart."

"Just hold me as the world consumes, the fire of our lives, and I will never let go of this lover mine, through ice or rage or snow." Rhaenys spoke in High Valyrian for the line, and a sob from the crowd broke out from the sad tune of the song, and the haunting voices that sang it.

"No, I will not let go…" Rhaegar murmured, staring into the blue eyes of his betrothed.

"No, I will not let go…" She harmonized with him, and before he thought better of it, swung down with the last strum of his harp, and kissed her upon her lips, where the haunting melody died with a sudden gasp as they came together.

The wicked laughter of the King had them jumping apart, and a moment of horror registered on Rhaenys's face before she schooled herself into a mask of a maiden. Was she embarrassed that he kissed her so publicly? They were to be husband and wife after all!

"Forgive me your grace, I must retire for the evening." Rhaenys blurted out an excuse before curtsying and running off, a rustle of skirts and swing of silver hair.

King Aerys merely laughed, "A shy one, your bride, better you be the only man she ever knows." His crude comment earned laughter from the sleazier side of court, while the proper ladies looked rather scandalized.

"Indeed father." Rhaegar muttered out, draining his goblet of wine before excusing himself from the feast as well under the guise of the early morning ahead of him. Tomorrow, they would begin their journey of the Seven Kingdoms, and their northern excursion towards the Wall itself.

A/N:

Sorry the song is shitty, there is no actual lyric for A Dance of Dragons, only that it's a duet of two lovers dying in the Doom of Valyria. The Rhaegar/Rhaenys action is for lightwalnut64 who wished to see Rhaegar fall in love and get knocked down a few pegs.

Please read, relish and review!


	7. Chapter 7

Rhaenys wore a mask of courtesy as a second skin, a mask of propriety that she hid behind with a practiced ease. In Riverrun, she listened to Hoster Tully ramble on drunkenly of how his great aunt would have been Westeros's first Tully queen, had Jenny of Oldstones not come around, and was flattered by Jon Arryn when he gifted her a book from the libraries of the Eyrie on the myths and legends of the First Men, Andals and Valyrians from before Dorne entered into Targaryen rule, simply because she made a remark of interest in such fables.

It took two grueling months of smiles and flattery, but Winterfell at last loomed in the distance before her, a grand, dark castle. Rhaenys felt horribly unprepared the further North they travelled, for her wardrobe had been assembled as that of a new bride, traditionally leaving little skin covered as to ease an heir from the marriage bed, and she felt a fool for letting the seamstress stuff her trunks as if she were wedding into a house in the Summer Isles, and not the King of Winter himself. Rhaenys had a strong resilience to heat, and both Queen Rhaella and Prince Rhaegar had commented on her warm skin, but even a dragon's inner flame could not keep her from shivering in her carriage as snow fell demurely upon the ground everywhere they went. The Westerosi style gowns that the Queen had commissioned for her were being worn more and more often, though she dared not complain of the cold.

Neither did her servants, all former slaves of heavy accent and little knowledge of the common tongue. It was sort of sad, really, watching the dozen freed people, six men and six women, struggle to adjust to a new continent that they had no preparation for. The women shivered less so than the men, for they took care of Rhaenys's whims and needs within her chambers, a few of the women closer in age to her serving as handmaidens and serving maids. The men served as pages, stable boys and general servants, and Rhaenys had quietly commissioned cloaks for them to wear, made of thick grey wool and embroidered with strong, sturdy thread the image of a black dragon breathing flames.

Rhaenys stuck a pale wrist out the window of the carriage, watching the downy fluff fall into her hands, and she gasped from the cold. Rhaegar rode next up next to her, riding tall upon his mount, and smiled at her childish amusement. "You look at snow as if it were magic." He remarked with a teasing smile, and she blushed without having to force herself to.

"Magic is seeing something for the first time." She replied softly, turning her wrist to and fro, enjoying the feeling of the cold as it melted against her skin.

Rhaegar quirked an eyebrow at her then, "Does it not snow in Elyria or the surrounding lands?" The prince had never been to Slaver's Bay, but his ignorance could not help but make her giggle.

"It has a similar climate to that of Dorne, only less warm, so perhaps the Reach or the Westerlands." Rhaenys informed with a sly smile, "It's very tropical, the sun kisses your skin and the salt air is good for the lungs. Perhaps you can see it for yourself one day…" She trailed off then, realizing the weight of her words, and the lack of truth behind them. They had reached Winterfell, they would be at the Wall within a moon, and from there, Rhaenys would likely never see Rhaegar again, what reason would he have to travel to her ancestral home?

"When our first child is old enough to travel, we shall take him or her to meet their mother's parents." Rhaegar promised, "I swear to you, Rhaenys, by the Old gods and the New." He had been speaking more and more poetically to her as of late, filled with promises and desires that he meant to fulfill, but never would. The prince had fallen into the palms of her hands, and she hated herself for it. They were more alike than she had realized originally, both desperate to be loved and fulfill the destiny set out before them. All Rhaegar wished for was a bride to bear his children and bend his ear, and Rhaenys was not able to do either.

With every keep they stayed at, the feast would end the same, a lord or lady would beg the prince for a song, and when the harp came forth, the whispers would sound, of the prince and the princess singing a duet so lovely it brought maidens to tears, and a noble would beg Rhaenys to sing while her betrothed played his harp, and with expectant eyes upon them, they would fulfill their duty. It was always a love song, sung in High Valyrian for Rhaegar thought her voice was prettiest in their native tongue, and her handmaidens would weep silently as they listened to their lady sing, for they knew the sadness of her voice did not stem from the words she sang, but to whom she sang them to.

Leaning back into the cushions of the carriage, Rhaenys smiled sadly and simply nodded to Rhaegar in response to his vow, "Go, my love, the Lord of Winterfell will surely be waiting to greet you, better you be with your men than shuffling along with a wheel house full of women." Her words seemed so hollow, but Rhaegar ate them up like candy and kissed the hand that still reached out towards the snow before he rode away.

"I shall wish for a bath when we arrive." Rhaenys informed Aeyma in High Valyrian, the former slave who served solely Rhaenys ever since she was gifted to her for her tenth nameday. Aeyma was two years older than she, with thick black hair woven back into a sturdy braid, purple eyes the color of lavender and a steely gaze that could level castles with single glance. Where Rhaenys was a slip of a thing, with slender shoulders, Aeyma was sturdy, well built with strong hands and thick skin, the burnt black scar upon her cheek held a perfect outline of a three headed dragon. Lord Vaylarr and chosen the girl for his daughter personally, selecting her from a long line of slaves from Assiah because even at the tender age of ten when she received her brand, the girl did not cry out or whimper, merely flinched in silence. ' _She will keep your secrets and do your dark deeds, she will follow every command you give, and ignore any given by another should you will it. She is yours, Rhaenys, use her well.'_ As a girl, Rhaenys did not understand what her father meant, only seeing a playmate after years of isolation, but as a woman she understood.

Aeyma had no life save for Rhaenys's desires, she had been trained by the Masters who owned her before the Belarys's to build herself around her owner, and she had. Aeyma would do anything Rhaenys desired, the lady soon learned, whether it be to clean a chamber pot or seduce a merchant, she would do as she was told. "Of course, my lady." Aeyma replied, "Would you prefer the lavender or the mint fragrance oil?"

Watching the looming keep slowly come into view, Rhaenys pondered the question for a moment, "The mint." The direwolf sigil snarled down at her as they crossed into the gates of Winterfell, where a small crowd had gathered, causing her to wonder if the whole household had come to catch a glimpse of the crown prince and his foreign bride. The moment Rhaegar's boot swung from his horse and landed into the dirt, a wave passed through the crowd as they all slowly kneeled or curtsied.

"Your grace." A man looking to be a handful of years younger than her own father stood with a long, grim face and drew his broadsword. The soldiers around the prince, the man in white armour that Rhaenys had come to know as Ser Arthur Dayne in particular, seemed to tense in that moment, reaching for swords of their own until a slight movement of hand from Rhaegar caused them to pause and simply stare warily. The Warden of the North swung his sword and planted it into the dirt, using it as a prop as he sunk onto one knee in respect before Rhaegar, surprising even Rhaenys with the honorable act and thorough representation of respect. "Winterfell is yours to command, my prince."

Rhaegar smiled charismatically and nodded his head in affirmation, "I thank you, Lord Stark." He paused for a moment, as if remembering her presence, and walked to the wheel house a stone's throw away from him and opened the door, offering his hand to Rhaenys. The wind blew against her face, and a small cloud of breath fogged under her nose as she left the warmth of the carriage to stand by Rhaegar's side. Whispers broke out once more, for no Valyrian had come to Winterfell since Prince Aemon on his way to take the Black, and even then, his short cropped hair and simple clothing did little to reveal his heritage then, not in the way the couple that stood before the crowd did.

With a mask of serenity, Rhaenys adjusted her skirts and cloak so that the design was not wrinkled and attempted to appear graceful in her pair of thick leather boots, sturdy shoes but far heavier than the silk slippers she had grown used to over the years. Her hair was twisted into a southron fashion, one that Aeyma had spent the morning ride preparing, and Rhaenys was pleased with the rows of neat braids that twisted and spun up her head, with small purple gems twisted in so that her hair resembled a crown. She looked out of place in the dreary winterfell courtyard, resplendent in purple silks over thick, deep grey wool, appearing light despite the layers of cloth, practically gliding across the snow.

Lord Stark stood still as winter before them, his broad sword upon his back and his children and wife by his side. Lady Stark looked almost frail, a strange image for a Northern woman, especially one with broad shoulders and hips such as the one before Rhaenys, but the woman seemed...brittle. Her hair was limp in its braid, clothes loose upon her skin as though she had not worn them in a good while to know that she had even lost the weight, but her eyes were deep and dark, filled with life and a shock against her other features. She stood on her husband's left, and to her own was their only daughter, Lyanna Stark. She shared her mother's fierce gaze, but none of her brittleness, she held her father's wide presence and a beauty all her own.

For the first time in her life, Rhaenys felt jealousy, green shielding her eyes in such a way that she barely felt the pride of seeing the heir of Stark, Brandon, stumble over himself as he greeted over her, a boy of fifteen, not worth noticing if not for the kingdom he was set to inherit. Lyanna blushed as she curtsied before Rhaenys's betrothed, even giggled when he kissed her hand, and Rhaenys wanted her whipped like the serving boy who had peeped on her when she was but thirteen, he was beaten within an inch of his life, and Rhaenys never dared to voice the small hint of pleasure she gained from watching him scream. She had pushed the feeling down so deep within herself she never thought she would see it again, yet there it was, rushing up at the sight of the Northern girl who was so clearly taken with her betrothed. It was silly, she reasoned to herself, Rhaegar was not hers, merely a sham of a betrothed, but she had spent months flirting and flattering the prince, and here Lyanna Stark sought to take him away.

The worst part was, she was not aware of how obvious she was, glancing at him every other moment as both he and Rhaenys greeted the Stark household. As Brandon Stark kissed her ring and blushed crimson, Lyanna blushed at the sight of Rhaegar's finery, and Rhaenys listened to him prattle on of how he had recently returned from his fostership at the Rills, silently fuming as Lyanna adjusted her simple gown. Rhaenys was prettier, she reasoned to herself, better pedigree and pure blood, but her otherworldly looks were the opposite of Lyanna's wild, earthly features, and the child in Rhaenys worried that Rhaegar would disregard her for the descendant of the First Men.

"A shame my brother, Ned, could not be here, he left just last year for the Eyrie to foster with the Old Falcon." Brandon bragged with such emphasis on names, Rhaenys nearly laughed at his attempt to impress her. She had met both Ned Stark and Robert Baratheon, for the squires had travelled to Riverrun when she had been there, eager to participate in the melee portion of the tourney hosted by Hoster Tully in the Prince's honor. The Stag had been impressive on the field, but horrid to talk to, for the heir to Storm's End was a bawdy, drunken fool who was kept in place by his friend, a second son used to cleaning up other's messes.

"Yes, Lord Eddard was quite a gentleman, a quiet, northern soul." Rhaenys silenced Brandon's ramblings, "I suggested that he accompany us North, but he insisted that Eyrie be his home for another year, as per his father's wishes."

"Ned is an obedient son." Lord Rickard added with a ghost of a smile, his words coded, _a trained, second son,_ and the echo was clear even to the untrained ear. "We all miss him terribly, but the South shall do him well, I am sure." Rhaegar had informed her over dinner the previous evening of the ambitions of the Warden of the North, how he fostered his heir in the North to keep peace, while his spare went East and his daughter betrothed to the South. Even his future good daughter, Catelyn, came from the Riverlands, and would be the first Lady of house Stark born south of the Neck in all of known history, a fact that caused quite a stir in the North, no doubt.

"As well as a Stark south of the Neck can be." Rhaenys quipped, surprising those around her, and she realized her mistake immediately, what use would a girl from Illyria have of knowledge of Northern folk lore, specifically that Starks that leave the North never fare well? She quickly smiled brightly, laughing like the foolish girl she was supposed to be and dimly asked, "Surely, the flattery of the south is lost upon them? The sight of an ankle must cause a Northern Man to blush, considering the wool the ladies bundle themselves in against the cold here." Her stupid jape caused the crowd to laugh, and she wondered how sincere it was. All around her, people bought her quick cover up, but in the back of the crowd, a woman with streaks of grey in her hair stared at her with a dark, hooded gaze. They had been given a wide berth, making her easy to spot, for the youth next to her caused people to keep their distance, he was a large thing, with dopey, kind eyes and strong hands. The woman nodded at Rhaenys, and then she and the boy next to her disappeared into the keep.

Clinging to Rhaegar's arm as he led her away from the Stark family, where she had hastily greeted the youngest, Benjen, with a smile and pat to the head, they moved inside to rest and prepare for the evening feast. The thought of a bath with mint oil seemed like heaven in that moment, and Rhaenys let herself be guided to her rooms, but the woman's knowing gaze and subtle nod haunted her.

A/N:

Sorta skipping ahead here, I wanted them at Winterfell so the plot could get going. They will stay in Winterfell for a chapter or two before heading to the Wall.


	8. Chapter 8

She could feel the eyes upon her skin, the whisper of the servants who thought themselves discreet. " _Who knew Valyrians were so...pretty. Even the prince has the beauty to charm a warrior to his bed if he wore a skirt!"_ Rhaenys wanted the serving girl who spoke such words whipped, at the very least. Were she at home, the girl would have lost her tongue. But Illyria was not Westeros, the Seven Kingdoms were where all men were free and servants with wagging tongues were given but a frosty glance.

Rhaenys loathed Westeros and her customs, simply because everyone was playing the great game. She longed for home, for the sandy shores and clear pecking order, where her family ruled with complete control over their lands, and no one dared to so much as whisper a negative thought about the house of Belaerys. But upon this foreign soil, she was Rhaegar's future bride, a pretty little doll on display to please the masses, she was no true dragon. ' _We Stand Above All."_ It was a mantra in her head in times of doubt, in times of weakness. Her father had never truly been able to show empathy, so as a child, whenever she cried, whether it be she fell from her horse and broke her arm, or when the news was broke that it was time for her to leave her home to travel to Westeros, her father's reaction was always the same. He would kneel to her height, grasp her frail shoulders in his meaty palms and softly, sternly whisper their house words. ' _We Stand Above All, Rhaenys.'_

She was the last daughter of Belaerys, and she would do her duty. Rhaegar seemed to love the North, for he came alive within Winterfell in way that Rhaenys had never seen. The Lady had been shown to the Glass Gardens, where she witnessed the blue winter roses that were the pride of the North. Yet arm in arm with her betrothed, he never once looked at her, only their guide. Lyanna Stark played the part of hostess and Lady of Winterfell, since her mother had passed years ago, and the Northern beauty drank in the attention bestowed by the prince.

Rhaenys saw too much of herself in the girl, an only daughter of a powerful man, whose bannerman all tripped over each other to earn the adoration of the young rose. Only, little Lyanna Stark was not even aware of her power, of her charm. She simply rides about Winterfell as if it were her own keep and not her father's, long, dark hair billowing about behind her. They were similar enough in personality, but Lyanna was ice where Rhaenys was fire, and she feared Rhaegar was more attracted to the cold.

"I apologize again for the serving girl, Lady Rhaenys." Lyanna seemed unapologetic, perhaps a little smug even, and Rhaenys wanted to strike her herself, yet merely smiled icily at the younger woman.

"It cannot be helped, a servant is a reflection of their master." Rhaenys shrugged with an over gracious roll of her shoulders, enjoying the narrowing of grey eyes before her, so she continued, "The North is said to be full of brutes, it lacks the class of the South, the elegance as a result of being so close to royalty, true examples of Valyrian grace." She batted her eyelashes

at Rhaegar, who had stiffened beside her, and narrowed his eyes ever so slightly at her.

"The North is the largest, and most feral of the Seven kingdoms," Rhaegar conceded, his poster suddenly rigid, and he seemed to subtly distance himself from her as he moved towards Lyanna, "But it is a wild, untamed beauty that is not meant to be restricted by trivial things such as flowery speech."

Rhaenys felt the mask of serenity slip ever so slightly, the role she had prepared for never included Rhaegar having a bleeding heart, let alone a soft spot for Northern barbarity. He took Lyanna's side over his betrothed in such a small matter as a servant with a wagging tongue, would she ever claim power in his court? Her cheeks burned as she blushed with embarrassment, shame like ice water pouring over her and she glared darkly towards the north, where thousands of miles away, lay her true betrothed. She was the bride of fire for the king of ice, yet what she had seen of ice thus far, she was far from impressed.

"Thank you, Rhaeg-" Lyanna's normally confidant voice faltered at the flash of Rhaenys's eyes at her words, "-My prince…" She had meant to call the crown prince of the Seven Kingdoms by his given name, something Rhaenys had never even said aloud. Rhaegar was _her_ prince, not Lyanna's, and jealousy was a brightly burning flame within her.

Rhaegar smiled sweetly at the two women, glancing between them in an attempt to diffuse the situation, and the lack of surprise had Rhaenys seeing red. ' _He gave her permission to call him Rhaegar, a Lady that he has known less than a moon!'_ He had told her to call him by his name when they had met, but when she saw his face for the first time, it was as his future bride, not as a stranger to whom he was staying in her father's castle, yet Lyanna had moved Rhaegar in ways she had not.

Shame burned bright in Rhaenys, and she turned from the two people before her, the couple before her. "Please, excuse me, my prince." Her words mimicked the formality Rhaenys had expected of Lyanna, and she suddenly felt as if she were standing before a stranger, not her supposed future husband, and fell into a deep curtsy before her practiced mannerisms were overruled by her rapidly beating heart.

Rhaegar did not move to stop her, and she was not sure if it was better or worse than if he had, and her boots shuffled through the snow. She missed her silk slippers, and the weight of the thick shoes made her ankles ache with every step. She needed to go somewhere quiet, to quiet her racing heart and shuddering thoughts. A stableboy nearly ran into her, and as he apologized and bowed sloppily at her feet, her words shook, "Is there a Sept in the castle?" A Septa had been brought to tutor her on the faith of the Seven, so the people of Westeros would not see her as an outsider, but she never truly took to the faith. But within every castle on their tour to Winterfell, a Sept rested in the walls of each keep, and no one dared disturbed a praying

lady.

"No my lady, the people of the North keep with the tradition of the Old Gods." The boy seemed fearful then, as if she would strike him. Had word spread of the fit she threw over the maid who suggested her prince was pretty enough to be a woman, of the scratch of her nails upon the woman's cheek when she struck her? He cowered still and continued to speak, "I can escort m'lady to the Godswood."

Rhaenys nodded before she thought her answer through, for the boy led her outside the keep once more, and into the woods. She should have known by the name that she would find no comforts within the trees, let alone find it indoors. Yet the woods were filled with a thick warmth that permeated the air, and the soft rush of water could be heard in the distance, a hot spring perhaps?

The boy left with another farce of a bow, and Rhaenys scoffed silently at the lack of even a bench before shifting her skirts around her so she could sit upon them, they would no doubt be caked in mud by the time she returned. Violet eyes stared into the stained face of the heart tree, and a strange sense of warmth flooded her, rendering her still as she breathed the cold air into her lungs.

"The bride of ice for the king of fire." An old woman appeared next to the entrance of the grove, her eyes burning through Rhaenys. A long shadow covered the lady, and Rhaenys stared beyond the woman, where a large man stood as protector. "The prophecy is coming to pass."

Rhaenys recoiled in fear, recognising the crone and youth as the ones who stared her down upon her arrival at Winterfell, now she knew why. "How did you know?" She did not bother to deny it, not with the wizened gaze of the old shrewd before her.

"It has been my duty to tell the tales of the Kings of Winter and their descendants, even those that history has written out and forgotten." She leveled her with a gaze, and walked closer to the lady kneeling before the tree, and Rhaenys felt small, so she stood to be at level with the woman. "It has been many years since Brandon the Breaker commanded his brother be forgotten by time, but the halls of Winterfell remember the boy the Night's King once was, the loyal brother who took the Black to keep the peace."

Rhaenys narrowed her eyes at the woman, squaring her shoulders as if she could make her thin frame give a more commanding presence through sheer will alone. She wanted to command the woman to leave, to banish her from her sight, yet the elderly crone knew who and what she was, and Rhaenys wondered if perhaps the woman knew more than she let on. So, she did as she was taught, she played the game, "Then you know that I must do what I have been bid for the sake of peace, if nothing else."

The icy laughter that erupted from the woman made Rhaenys flinch, who was she to mock a Belaerys? A commoner, weathered by time itself, laughed at the blood of the dragon. "You seek the fulfill a pact, yet know nothing of the prophecy of what it will bring." Eyes of deep honey brown glared into soul, "When the bride of fire and the king of ice unite as man and wife, they shall bring the flame, and with it, winter shall come evermore. You come to the seat of the Starks, the kings of Winter from time immemorial, and dare to seek out the corrupted son? You should have stayed South, with your pretty betrothed and his flickering flame."

"I seek out the man to whom I shall spend my life with!" Her voice was shriller than she wished, and Rhaenys wanted to claw the woman's eyes out. She dared not speak what her inner thoughts mocked, ' _the rest of your life, sure, but how long shall that be in truth?'_ "A King to whom shall make me Queen! Whose magic shall save my house, who will prove that I was not born just for the last dragon to die!" Her words ended with a great heave of a sob, and her knees hit the snow as her shoulders shook. She was weak, pathetic; she was no true dragon, as her father was quick to remind her, the last dragon died as she breathed her last breath.

The woman seemed ready to end Rhaenys with her sharp tongue, but the slosh of footsteps in the snow killed the words within her mouth. From the openings of the trees, Lyanna Stark appeared, with Aeyma at her heels, faces painted with worry, though Rhaenys saw the strain upon the winter maiden's mask of care. "Old Nan? Hodor?" Her voice cut across the grove, and Rhaenys realized with a start that the two monsters that stood before her had names, and suddenly she felt a fool for being frightened by the odd pair that had cornered her in the godswood. "What's going on here?" Lyanna attempted to be commanding, but she seemed as a child attempting to be the boss of their parent.

"Telling tales of the Winter Kings, my lady." Old Nan, as the woman had been titled, deep with a flourish, suddenly seeming frail in the glow of the red leaves as she smiled at Lyanna. "Lady Rhaenys has never heard the tales of the First Men." It was a lie, though none seemed to point it out, and Lyanna smiled indulgently and beckoned the woman forward, away from Rhaenys and towards herself.

"How wonderful, but Benjen is looking for you, he refuses to get ready for the feast without a tale of his own I'm afraid." Lyanna's face held a hint of mischief that spoke to the fact that this was not the first time Benjen had pulled such a trick. As Old Nan came towards the northern lady, her back seemed to hunch, making her seem frail as she linked arms with the one Lyanna offered.

Neither turned back to even glance at Rhaenys, save the large boy she now knew as Hodor, who smiled and said his name enthusiastically before moving to follow the women. When they were out of sight, Aeyma rushed to her charge's side and moved to further wrap the cloak about the lady's shoulders. "Do not touch me!" Her hand crossed Aeyma's face in a sharp slap, and Rhaenys stared at her own fingers in slight shock before her temper flared once more and she shoved past her servant, who had fallen to her knees in a deep curtsy and mumbled, "I'm sorry, my lady" over and over from her place below Rhaenys.

A sick sense of satisfaction coiled in Rhaenys at the sight of the former slave whimpering before her, and Old Nan's words warmed her with every step towards the castle, " _And they shall bring the flame….and they shall bring the flame…."_

A/N:

And I'm back! I feel really bad for such a long delay between updates of either of my fics, and I'm sorry about that. I recently broke up with my boyfriend of multiple years and started by senior year of University (which means all the lit courses in the world, which means reading and writing papers for days), so life has been crazy. I promise to try and update at least one fic per week from here on out.


	9. Chapter 9

Rhaegar stared at Lyanna Stark constantly, barely even aware that he was doing it until Arthur would subtly break his trance. Valyrians were said to be the epitome of beauty, the Maiden's features reflected, yet even his betrothed paled to Lyanna's piercing gaze and tumbling dark tresses. Rhaenys was lovely, a striking, devastatingly delicate woman, yet she reminded him of his mother, Queen Rhaella. Both were women who were prideful of their Valyrian roots, of the blood of the dragon that flowed in their veins, but the Doom had happened hundreds of years before, they were Westerosi now, despite any arguments against it and his father's attempts at reintroducing the old ways with a Baelerys bride.

Perhaps that was why he was so drawn to Lyanna, the polar opposite of what was expected as the next Queen of the seven kingdoms, the wild, northern woman who ensnared him just as Betha Blackwood charmed her way into Aegon the Unlikely's heart. "Which would be worse, a broken betrothal or two fulfilled?" He pondered outloud to his Kingsguard and best friend, the Star of the Morning.

Ser Dayne did not seemed amused by the question, for he stiffened at his perch by the closed door to the prince's bedchambers in Winterfell, blocking anyone from entering. "If your father catches wind of this…" He purposely trailed off, allowing the words to sink in before he continued, "Or Lady Rhaenys, for that matter. I pray we never find out which would have the more violent reaction."

"Surely she would understand, would it not be better to have a bride from Westeros as well as one from Illyria? The people expected a Tully bride for my grandfather and Lord Lannister all but threw his daughter at my feet! The people of Westeros wish for a Westerosi bride." Rhaegar reasoned, though his friend's face revealed the flaws in his logic.

"The people have spoken, eh? Or perhaps your cock has." Arthur was always the blunt one, an honest man who spoke with reason rather than emotion. He had a sharp tongue, one he knew when to hold and when to unleash, causing him to earn Rhaegar's favor. "Lady Rhaenys is quite pretty, she has features I thought Shaena would one day possess." A crackle passed through the air, the room suddenly stuffy as Rhaegar's dead sister was mentioned. Perhaps that was why he was so loathsome to allow himself to feel romantic intentions towards Rhaenys, she was a replacement for the sister who was supposed to be his wife. Shaera died as a small child, barely a girl, but even then she was a budding beauty.

Rhaegar knew that every man had a woman he prefered, some preferred a slip of a thing, others more robust women, some liked redheads and others blonds. What was it his father had once said, a sly remark made to embarrass his mother? ' _A man marries a woman of his family's choice and warms his bed with the women of his preference, an ugly wife does not make for an ugly bedmate.'_ Queen Rhaella had bristled in shame at the comments, made before the entire royal court when the king was deep into his cups. Surely it was better to have two brides and prefer one over the other, than to have a loveless marriage with a beloved mistress.

"I should have never agreed to journey the kingdoms." Rhaegar lamented, he had been so eager to please Rhaenys, to make her believe that he was happy to have her as his, smitten even, but it blew up in his face.

"If it were not Lady Stark now, it would be a lady from another house, one of the Tully sisters perhaps. You cannot mask a problem with another." Arthur pointed out, "Your father arranged a betrothal to a lady of noble blood, who is expected to become Queen after your lady mother. The last time a betrothal in the royal family was broken, half the continent was turned against the Targaryens, had Princess Rhaelle not agreed to become Lady Baratheon, your family might very well have lost their throne." Steffon Baratheon had always been quick to call the king his cousin, despite them being second cousins and not first. Should he fail to produce a son of his own, the Stags would swoop upon the throne swiftly, he had no doubt.

"Lady Rhaenys is…" Rhaegar could not seem to vocalize his thoughts. She was delicate upon the eyes, but fierce as flame itself, with a lost look about her eyes that made him wonder what made her so melancholy.

"Too much your mirror?" Arthur questioned, causing Rhaegar to sit up from his perch by the window and face the knight fully. He stared at him for a long moment, prince to servant, before a knock sounded at the door.

The Sword of the Morning moved to open it, yet the look upon his face revealed who it was without him saying so aloud. His simmering anger and hidden resentment revealing the Lady of house Stark with ease. "Your grace." She curtsied deeply, though it looked strange as she was wearing riding clothes, a long shirt giving her the illusion of feminine dress despite the pants she wore, which hugged her budding figure nicely. "The men you collected from the Neck and beyond are eager to reach their destination." Her smile was flirty, as she glanced at Arthur as if silently asking for him to be dismissed.

Rhaegar had run into a wandering crow on his journey north, who asked to join the royal caravan as they progressed, hoping the allure of travelling with royalty would bring more men to his cause. The Northern lords had all barked of his generosity, making the simple acquiesce to the request have a heavy gain despite the little effort on his part. Rhaenys had wished to travel to the Wall from the beginning, to see the untamed lands peaking beyond the land of eternal snow. The maiden had never seen snow in the flesh before, and her look of wonder would stay with him forever. She wished to look out over the top of the wall, " _be the tallest woman in the world, if just for a moment."_ She had told him, " _We stand above all, after all."_

He cared for the girl, he honestly did, but could he love her? He lusted after Lyanna Stark, with her wild Northern sensibilities and her tight, leather pants, simply because he had never seen a woman so free before. But the wolf girl could not be the queen Rhaenys would be, the last daughter of Belaerys had been groomed for a crown since birth.

"Your grace?" Lyanna asked again, breaking him from his thoughts.

"Of course, Lady Lyanna." He spoke quickly, before his wandering mind was realized. "We shall leave in two days hence, to give time for preparations to be made." His eyes skimmed her figure, the trail of hair against her face, loose from the braid, the dire wolf snarling from the sigil on her breast. It was a man's shirt, he realized with a touch of humor, that was why it was long on her, perhaps her brother Ned's from before he left for the Eyrie, or stolen from Brandon's chambers. "Are you going riding?"

"Yes your grace." Her words were nonchalant, though her grey eyes held a spark of hope. "I can have a horse saddled for you, the Wolfswood is quite lovely...Rhaegar." She seemed reluctant to call him by name, no doubt due to the fact that his betrothed had quite a negative reaction to such informalities between the two.

Arthur seemed to mirror Rhaenys's sentiments, for his eyes flickered with displeasure though he said nothing, simply watched the exchange silently. "His grace has promised to dine with the lords Umber and Stark, Lord Umber has travelled south from Last Hearth to escort the prince and his party back to Umber lands and beyond."

"Of course." Lyanna replied, though her gaze never wavered from his. She took another step forward and when she moved to fidget her hands he grasped them, smiling indulgently at her, causing her to beam.

"There is time before the evening feast, a short ride would do me good." Rhaegar informed them, much to Arthur's visible displeasure. "Would you be our escort, Ser Arthur?" Surely he would be more trustworthy than the household guard, no doubt overtly protective of their lady.

The knight nodded, and Rhaegar looped his arm with Lyanna's as they left his chambers, unaware of the honey brown eyes that kept a sharp watch on them as they moved through the castle.


	10. Chapter 10

Rhaenys had been seething in silence for nearly a week, Aeyma not daring to speak of her mistress's ill temper for fear of rebuke. Aeyma had been with Rhaenys since infancy, she was six name days when the Lord of Belaerys assigned her to look over his progeny. The little lady was raised with the knowledge of her noble blood, though no one expected her arrogance. Rhaenys clothed herself in the finest silks and furs, though as she grew older they became more bold at her father's behest. A slave bought from the Slavers of Bravos, she hailed from Asshai, though the little bit of her native tongue had long been beaten from her memory. The only thing in her native tongue she seemed to recall was the song her mother would sing to allow her to fall asleep, the same one she used to calm her mistress at night.

"My lady…" Her voice was soft, though Rhaenys glared at the slave-turned-servant as if she had shouted, "Perhaps some air would do your ladyship good." She gestured to the locked door and bolted windows, drawn with dark curtains to keep out the cold. Last Hearth had a fire lit in every room, true to its name, and though Lord Umber was especially welcoming, Rhaenys was not pleased.

All favor that she had won Rhaegar over with had dissipated at the sight of Lyanna Stark and her twinkling grey eyes. Rhaenys had feared on the ship that brought her to this land that she would be dealing with a fight of silver or gold, for tales of Cersei Lannister and her bright beauty had reached her ears, the lioness could have been a fierce competition in the capital if the king had not had a falling out with the lion lord and had them sent away. How was she to compete with her opposite? Cersei she could manipulate and either win the woman to her side or banish her from her sight, yet the Stark girl was a variable she had not expected, her polar opposite. Rhaegar did not seem to mind rugged, good looks, he seemed to even prefer them over refined, polished beauty, leaving Rhaenys at a loss for what to do.

No amount of teasing clothing or sweet smelling perfumes would win him over from Lyanna and her wooden aura. Rhaenys had watched them together, Rhaegar choosing to ride next to Lyanna Stark instead of next to or within the wheelhouse with his betrothed. So every day she sat with no one but Aeyma with her, coddled in furs and staring at the dark, polished material of the box her father bid her to bring with her everywhere she went, a constant reminder. Weeping dragons of grey and black adorned the fine material, though when she felt like truly torturing herself she would open it and gaze inside, where the withered corpse of her dragon lay. Though it had died when she took her first breath, the body resisted decay to the point that one might think the hatchling simply sleeping. She was beautiful, grey scales with blue etchings, and Rhaenys sometimes dreamed of her, the sweet blue-eyed dragon who would fly her to Elyria, where her father would admit he was proud of her at last. But the dragon never moved, only stayed still as stone in the box, with Rhaenys gazing on for hours.

The servants assumed it was filled with her jewelry or some other fancy, expensive trinkets, so when she insisted it remain by her side when she traveled, most thought her simply paranoid of thievery and thus indulged her. They would leave Last Hearth tomorrow and she would climb into the carriage and alternate between gazing at her box and glaring at the back ends of her betrothed and the Stark girl. "My lady, there is a small balcony where you might rest a while…." Aeyma trailed off once more and Rhaenys resisted the urge to slap the girl for her insolence, though it seemed to be frowned upon in Westeros, especially the further one travelled north. The allure of Valyrian beauty and ideals seemed lost on the brutes that lived beyond the Neck, for they too catered to Lyanna over her.

"Why are you so insistent upon my leaving this room?" Rhaenys questioned, only for Aeyma to refuse to meet her gaze. "Aeyma." The warning of her name crackled in the air, her temper rising.

"A recruit from the Night's Watch, my lady." Aeyma seemed fearful of her, causing a twisted sense of satisfaction to take root within Rhaenys. "He claims to be a man hired by a Lord Craster...who is employed by _him."_

All warmth seemed to leave the room at once, a chill descending as the bolted window suddenly flew open with a great gust of wind. Aeyma lept to close it and quickly latched it once more, but Rhaenys was already shivering. "I want my thickest cloak." The statement was an order her servant was quick to comply with and Rhaenys swept out of her room a moment after. She felt as though she had aged fifty years in the same amount of days she had been in Westeros, the child who left her homelands no longer seemed to exist, only the firebrand of the woman she had become was left. That was how she felt as of late, like an open flame threatening to destroy everything in its wake, she felt powerful and powerless at the same time, unpredictable yet volatile.

Aeyma must have been in contact with the man for long before she mentioned it, for the man was already waiting for them, fidgeting with his clothes and hair nervously. The man seemed to be of lower social standing, with dirt streaks on his skin that suggested he had recently attempted to clean himself, to be presentable before her, no doubt. He bowed lowly before her, as if she were royalty and not simply a lady, which she silently reveled in. "Y-your grace, I seek only to serve." His voice shook as he glanced about, as if they were being watched, yet the only other creature nearby was a raven, who she had to admit seemed to be eyeing them, watching any and all movement.

"And who do you serve?" She questioned, watching the man stoop lower. He cowered at her words, as though her true betrothed were to jump out at them any moment to smite the man.

"My mother was a wilding." The man replied with shaky voice, deflecting her question, "My father was a lord sword to the Umbers, but a bastard of a lord holds no weight with a wildling mother, 'Others take him', he told my mother when she presented me to him, a squalling babe aged but a moon." His eyes grew hooded, "They would not take me. Told my mother to raise me until the Silver Queen comes to bring the Flame to the land of Ice, so I might ensure her safety."

The story shook her slightly, for in the open air the temperature seemed to continue to drop, their breath fogging before them as they spoke, yet Rhaenys was determined to show no weakness, not before the bastard of a brute northern man and a wildling especially. "Who do you serve?" Her words were crisp, detached and echoing upon the cold stone that surrounded them, causing the raven to caw with indignation.

"I serve the King who shall bring the Night, the Lord of Ice and his betrothed, the lady of Fire." The man bowed once more, "I travel with the Night's Watch but I shall be no crow, my purpose stands before me waiting to be realized." A crackle twisted the air, sharp and ashy like dark magic, an oath made unbreakable before her sight.

"When we reach the Wall, you shall escort me to this...lord Craster." She was reluctant to give the man she had never met a title, but knew he had his own keep and could be called a lord for such things. "And my future husband beyond." The man was simpering, nodding in relief that she had accepted him for use and she walked back into the warmth of the castle, not daring to see if the crow followed her movement. The creature unsettled her, for in the glare of the snow the creature seemed to stare at her with three eyes.

A/N:

A little short, sorry about that. I'm trying to push to the big meet up with the Night's King, partially because I have the chapter after they get to Craster's already written, so I'm chugging towards that moment because it was actually the first thing I ever wrote for this story, so it's exciting to be moving closer to that point.


	11. Chapter 11

Last Hearth was beautiful, even in the distance as they had ridden away from it a few days before, the flicker of the flames that kept the keep warm and gave it its name burning brightly, if not far from her view. Lyanna had felt a coldness settle about the caravan as they departed Winterfell, most of the Prince's entourage had chosen to stay behind at the seat of the Stark's, much to her father's chagrin. Winter was always coming in Rodrick Stark's mind, and the depletion on their stores was well felt with the elegance and hospitality given in accordance to the hosting of royals. She was expected to marry in a year or so, she knew, her father was in the final stages of sealing a betrothal for her with the Baratheons, though she had her eyes on a dragon, not a stag. Rhaegar was warm when they were alone, though in public he grew ever the more formal, especially when his betrothed was near.

Lyanna had an immediate dislike of Rhaenys, simply because the woman looked down on her whenever her gaze fell upon her, leaving Lyanna feeling rather small. She felt as like a child next to the foreigner, where Lyanna felt plain in appearance, Rhaenys seemed exotic, with her silver hair, lilac eyes and expensive wardrobe. A single gown worn by the future princess could have fed Wintertown for a few moons, notwithstanding the oversized jewels she wore. Yet Rhaegar seemed not to care a lick about Lyanna wore, his eyes seemed to follow her form wherever she moved, his fingers finding excuses to touch her, to hold her even in the barest of ways. The Northerners seemed to find the Prince's liberties too extensive, but they did not understand the Southron manners Rhaegar possessed.

Rhaenys had begrudgingly offered to allow Lyanna into her wheelhouse but despite the growing chill she continued to refuse the offer, for she enjoyed spending time with Rhaegar, who rode close to her side as the Wall loomed ever closer ahead. A group of riders were spotted in the distance, bearing the banners of the crows. "The Lord Commander sent a welcoming party, it seems." Lyanna voiced aloud, which broke Rhaegar from his thoughts quickly.

His eyes were clouded as they interceded with the dozen black brothers, ranging from a youth of no more than fourteen name days to a grizzled man in his fifties. The men all seemed well adjusted to the cold, layered in frostbitten furs and dark clothing, living to their name of crows. They all bowed in respect to Rhaegar as the royal party stopped to take a rest and greet the new comers. From the looming shadow cast by the Wall, Lyanna guessed they would arrive to the structure before the night completely fell. Dismounting from her horse, she watched Rhaegar greet the men and ask them of their journey, always the gallant prince.

Yet the men seemed to be staring at the wheelhouse more than the silver haired man before them and Lyanna turned to see the door of the carriage swing open and the lady-in-waiting exit. Aeyma was dressed in thick layers, yet still she shivered as her shaking hand reached out to guide her lady. Dressed in a shimmering gold, Rhaenys was a glaringly bright image amongst the white snow and black furs that surrounded her and Lyanna felt envy heat up within her. Even her boots seemed to barely make an indent upon the thick snow as she walked with a grace Lyanna could never hope to possess and as she took Lyanna's place at Rhaegar's side, a handful of the crows bowed deeply, sinking a knee into the snow before the group, shocking all who stood around them, for they barely nodded a head at their prince, yet formally bent the knee before his betrothed.

Aeyma seemed fearful, her eyes darting between the black brothers and the future princess as the wandering crow that had travelled with the royal party moved to join his fellow men. Rhaegar had a fire in his eyes, rage contained behind the forced smile he gave to his betrothed as they linked arms, Rhaenys purposely putting herself between Lyanna and Rhaegar. With a final, slight nod towards the men, Rhaenys smiled darkly at Lyanna, pleased with the display of power. The northernmen who had joined the party glowered at this display and when Rhaegar and his betrothed began to walk away from the center of the party, the men all purposely acknowledged Lyanna with nods of their heads and a soft, "my lady" as they moved to follow the prince.

"Aeyma?" Lyanna called out to the woman trailing behind the royals a few feet respectfully behind them, causing the poor thing to jump before she turned and curtsied. Lyanna waved her towards her person and when the servant stepped to her side she began to walk once more, allowing her pace to be slow enough that they had distance between the main group.

"Yes, Lady Lyanna?" Always aware of protocol, the former slave attempted to stay behind Lyanna, but she looped her arm with the woman's, causing her eyes to widen in silent surprise.

"The servants whisper of Lady Rhaenys's favorite companion, they say you hail from a land of magic." Her words lept with an interest only slightly falsified, for she was both interested and attempting to win her trust. "Far beyond where Lady Rhaenys hails."

Aeyma nodded, her face guarded, "My mother was a whore in Assiah, she sold me to Lord Baelaerys when I reached my fourth name day, so his daughter might have a companion." Her words were crisp and cut, as if rehearsed or stated often, though Lyanna did not know which one was more the truth.

"And your father agreed to this?" Lyanna questioned, though the look of amusement on Aeyma's face caused her to regret asking.

"My mother was a whore." Aeyma repeated, causing Lyanna to feel like a fool. "The children of whores rarely know their father, if anything my mother could have narrowed it down to the men she serviced within a few weeks." Her dry tone revealed that the list would have been too long to sort through.

"You are a bastard then." Lyanna did not mean to offend, she simply stated the truth. There was a power in being true born, even a bastard of a great lord was still a bastard, where a true born could rise simply by the virtue of being born within a marriage bed.

"We are all the product of our parents' carnal desires." Aeyma stated flatly and Lyanna could see the servant was losing interest. She moved to distance herself from the lady, revealing a molted patch of skin just above her right wrist, badly burned and chapped from repeated abuse. The skin seemed discolored and possessed patches of what appeared to be boils, as if her wrist were held in hot liquid until the skin scarred.

Lyanna stared at the woman's wrist even after she pulled her sleeve to cover the exposed expanse of flesh, the damage already done. Aeyma looked at her the same way a colt looked at Lyanna when she entered her stall in the stables while the mother horse was away: spooked and ready to fight or flee. "Aeyma…." Lyanna held her hands out, attempting to appear in control yet nonthreatening.

"I have to go, my lady will be expecting her midday meal." The servant lifted her skirts and moved briskly, putting as much distance between her and the northern lady as she could. Lyanna moved to grab her, to keep her in her sights, but she recoiled once she realized she had been reaching for the wounded arm of the servant.

"My lady?" A deep voice called out with a hint of hesitation, and she was surprised to see Arthur Dayne before her. The man wore a deeply troubled frown as he glanced between the retreating figure of Aeyma and Lyanna herself, standing immobile in the snow. He repeated Lyanna's previous actions, looping his arm in hers to escort her to the large tent being quickly constructed for the nobles to eat within before finishing the final leg of their journey to the Wall.

The two never did quite get along, yet with both staring at the quickly retreating form of Aeyma, they seemed to silently align themselves with another. Walking slowly, the two strolled arm in arm before Arthur broke the silence, "The lady Rhaenys enjoys her baths hotter than even the prince...the servants whisper that when Aeyma's flesh begins to blister, she knows the bath is properly prepared for her lady."

A shudder of revulsion chilled Lyanna to the core, matching the look on Arthur's face. "She is a human being…" Lyanna whispered, not daring to raise her voice for fear of keen ears overhearing her.

"She is a slave." Arthur replied flatly. His armor creaked in the cold as they moved towards the tent, the sound of a freshly made fire complimenting the squeal of the dying chickens brought to be freshly plucked and roasted for the meal. "A master cares little for the pain of their property."

"Slavery has been outlawed for hundreds of years!" Lyanna replied hotly, raising her voice without meaning to. A woman wrapped in a ridiculous amount of furs turned to watch with a scandalized eye, no doubt gathering fresh gossip for the meal.

Arthur pinned her with a stare, silencing her without speaking himself. "In Westeros, but the lady is not Westerosi, neither are any in her entourage, her servants were all once slaves, and a slave without a concept of freedom cannot be given it." They walked in silence, mulling over the knight's words as they entered the freshly erected tent, masked with thick layers to keep out the chill.

Rhaegar was already seated in the handful of chairs pulled in a wagon behind the wheelhouse, the red of his doublet matching the silk cushions placed behind his back and no doubt under him as well. His eyes did not even flicker to hers, for he was preoccupied by Rhaenys, who poured a goblet of hot, spiced wine and fed the cup to his lips by her own hand. Envy flared up in Lyanna as her mind worked to fashion a plan to get Rhaegar alone, to convince him that Rhaenys was cruel, unfit to be his Queen, his anything really…

"Lady Stark!" Jon Umber smiled at her from his seat three places down from the prince, well within earshot, she knew, as the entire table turned to the sound of the great, booming voice. They called the man the Greatjon, as everything about him took up space and called for attention. He waved her towards the open seat between Rhaenys and himself, no one else seeming to notice the two women's discomfort at being so close to one another.

"The prince and I were discussing the merit of visiting the Godswood beyond the wall. They say the weirwood tree has grown for thousands of years!" The Greatjon seemed excited at the prospect, though the prince did not seem to share his enthusiasm.

"Yes, in a place known as the Haunted Forest, sounds like a lovely spot to visit." Rhaegar smiled at Rhaenys's quip, though it made Lyanna angry.

"I am sorry that the Old gods' place of worship does not suit you, my lady. Perhaps you prefer the Seven gods of the South suit you better, or a foreign deity from the land in which you hailed from?" Her words were dripping in false sweetness and she enjoyed the look of withheld outrage on Rhaenys's face. "What faith does your family hold?"

Rhaenys seemed at a loss for words, the first Lyanna had ever seen her as such. She appeared to be grappling with whether to tell a lie or the truth, until Rhaegar placed her hand in both of his and smiled, encouraging her silently. "My father raised me to believe in the power of fire, there was no specific deity, simply tales of fire and ice and the power of the human spirit."

The entire table stared at her for a moment, a few nobles raising a brow at her explanation, before a man wearing far too many layers to be from the North burst out in laughter. "I suppose the power of fire is far more realistic than praying to trees." His jape caused the Southerners to laugh, while the Northerners glared hotly at the man.

"Is it so abstract a concept to pray to a living thing with a face rather than a flame with the ability to harm?" Lyanna was surprised to see Rhaenys come to the defence of the Old gods, until she turned to her betrothed, "My love, might we venture to see the tree? I have read that the faces can grin or frown or laugh...how ironic would it be to see a laughing tree in the center of a supposedly haunted forest?"

Those gathered around the table began to laugh, agreeing with the future princess. Lyanna watched Rhaegar quickly agree to his betrothed, yet he shocked them all when he turned to Lyanna, publicly addressing her for the first time in ages. "Lady Lyanna, you are a devout follower of the Old gods, yes?" When she nodded, he continued, "Might you be our guide then? I'm afraid Green men are in short supply in these parts."

Rage, a flickering flame in Rhaenys's eyes flashed and died away as a mask of indifference slid into place, but it was all the prompting Lyanna needed, "Of course, my prince."


	12. Chapter 12

Rhaegar stared at the ice and flurry of snow that surrounded them as they began their accent to the top of the Wall, his mind turning like gears. Rhaenys was to be his wife, she brought a large dowry of gold, goods and trade to the match, where he would give her a crown and royal heirs in return. Yet the men of the Wall barely glanced at him, their own prince, they only had eyes for her. Rhaenys who had dressed in a gown as white as the snow itself with a pelt wrapped around her shoulders made from some sort of white bear, a polar bear? He half paid attention to the lavish gift bestowed upon his betrothed at their arrival, where he was given a fox pelt his future wife had been given a rarity, he tried to not let it bother him as much as he did.

Wrapped arm in arm, the two stood in stony silence as the men around them worked the lift that would show them past the Wall's highest point. Rhaegar could see Arthur's white armour waiting for him at the bottom, his loyal kingsguard showing the new recruits how to use a sword worth a damn. The wandering crow had followed them to this point, he never seemed far from their side, always watching the pair, studying them even. Using the hand not wrapped around her, Rhaegar reached up to stroke the soft white pelt that wrapped Rhaenys's lithe form. The revealing, scandalous gowns meant to tempt him to her had slowly become more modest in nature, designed to keep her warm and not warm his gaze and he was loathe to admit he missed the soft patches of her creamy skin being exposed to him.

She turned to him, lilac eyes boring into him before softening, as if she suddenly remembered who he was to her. "My love-" Her words were honeyed, purposely no doubt, though he did not mind her acting, part of him wished for them to be real, but he also knew that they could never love one another as other lords and ladies did, for they were to be prince and princess, then kind and queen, and from what he had seen of his parents, love and royalty simply do not mix.

"A storm is brewing." Any words Rhaenys had for him died in her throat when the Crow spoke, glaring at her in a mix of fear and anger, "It descended far from the north, it will reach us soon no doubt." The coded message seemed to pierce Rhaenys where Rhaegar was only confused, glancing to her in silent questioning.

"Aye." Rhaenys replied, suddenly somber, "A flurry of ice, perhaps meant to kill us all." Her eyes leapt with silent warning, which the man seemed to take as he moved as far from her as he could without falling to his death from the lift.

Silence reigned until the elevator ceased its movement and the door opened to let them out into the snow. The crows were easily visible, a stark black against the white and grey snow, moving with practiced ease as they went about their work. Rhaenys was the first to exit, pushing past them all and walking straight to the edge of the structure. She was fearless, his Rhaenys, steady footed as she made her way to the edge of his kingdom. The men all seemed wary, some more than others as a few of the handful moved towards her to ensure her safety. Was it because she was a woman? Was that their reasoning for extra protection of her? He thought of the tale of the Brave Danny Flint, who once exposed as a woman was raped and killed by her once brothers, and the thought of chivalry died before he voiced it aloud.

The tips of her boots hung over the edge as Rhaenys stood over the end of the Wall, a half circle of protectors surrounding her, watching her movements for a sign of a sudden fall. Rhaegar stood back, simply watching her stare at the flurry of clouds hanging overhead, listening to the distant thunder that rumbled, warning of the oncoming storm. Her mouth moved as she whispered words to herself, the wind carrying it away before he had a chance to hear them.

Just as suddenly as she moved to the edge, she turned from it, her hair billowing behind her as she smiled at him, warmer than he had ever seen, perhaps because it was so genuine. "What is it, my love?" The term of endearment he echoed seemed to break her from her trance, for her smile disappeared.

A wistful one took its place as she walked up to him, "We Stand Above All." Rhaenys replied, quoting her house words with a hint of irony. She had wanted to come to the Wall for that specific purpose, to be stand above everyone else, if just for a moment. He laughed as a drop of rain fell from the sky and landed on her forehead, the storm as quickly reaching them it seemed. Her eyes crossed as she watched it drip down onto the top of her nose, and he kissed her before he could think to stop himself.

He had never dared to touch her more than wrap his arms around her, but she looked too beautiful to not be kissed and he wanted their first kiss to be magic. Rhaenys blushed scarlett when he moved away, her face masked with surprise and a hint of something else, one might even say fear. But what did she have to be afraid of?

"My lady, we should get you indoors." The Wandering Crow shared Rhaenys's unease, it seemed, for he was as white as the snow itself. The rain came down even harsher with no warning, a light drizzle turning into a raging storm. A raven circled overhead, cawing out a warning, though he knew not to whom.

Rhaenys lifted her skirts and moved to walk back to the lift, but Rhaegar reached an arm out to stop her only to jump back at the sound of the crack from the sky. Lightning, sharp and sizzling, landed between their two bodies, in the place where Rhaegar had kissed her.

"I have to go." Rhaenys was as spooked as newborn colt, glancing around as if someone or something was watching them. She refused to even look at him, quickly turning away and bolting for the contraption that brought them up there in the first place. Her eyes did not move from the scorched spot on the ground, where a sizzle of smoke rose. The men working the lift closed the doors as soon as she entered and began their decent before he had a chance to board.

Alone on the top of the Wall, the remaining men looked at him warily. It was a young boy, no more than twelve, who broke the sound of silence. "Best not take any liberties with the lady, mi'lord." He seemed scared, glancing over Rhaegar's shoulder and to the storm beyond as he spoke.

"Liberties?" Rhaegar echoed, furrowing his brows, "She is to be my wife!" The words came out as more of a snarl than he meant, though the boy was unphased. He simply shrugged, pulling his coat tighter around him and refused to elaborate further.

With Rhaenys already descending, Rhaegar stood in silent brooding while waiting for the lift to return him to the ground. The dark grey clouds rumbled overhead, more lightning crackling in the distance. He had not seen a storm of such a magnitude since he was a child staying at Storm's End for a fortnight, cowering behind his mother's skirts as the castle shook from the sheer force of the wind. Robert Baratheon had laughed at him, a boy two years Rhaegar's junior but far too acclimated to the raging storms to care a lick for the howling that accompanied them.

Lyanna had warned him of her father seeking out a betrothal for her with the storm lord, though he could not bear to picture her with such a brute. He had heard rumors of a babe born in the Eyrie, a product of Robert spilling his seed in a serving girl. Rhaegar held no respect for the man, but his father had transported Rhaenys to him, so he had ensured the little girl would be properly taken care of, she was a sweet girl...but what was her name? Mia? Mya?...He could not seem to remember her name, though he supposed her name mattered little, she was a bastard after all and only family names mattered in this world.

Lost in his thoughts, Rhaegar did not see the occupant of the lift until he moved to board it, Lyanna cloaked in thick black wool and a wolf pelt draped down her back to keep her warm. He smiled at her, though she seemed to know it was strained, for she did not return it with a grin of her own. He loved to be the recipient of Lyanna's wolfish grin, yet instead he was met with a dark, worried stare.

He met her in the lift when she did not move to exit and alone outside of a Northern man from the Stark household, she curtsied in greeting. The formality left him feeling cold, so he moved to wrap his arm around her waist, earning a heated glare from the man accompanying her. "You are too kind to marry someone so cruel." Lyanna whispered the words, so softly only he could hear them, though the statement was quite bold.

"I'm sorry?" He asked, turning to face her fully even though she dared not look him in the eye. Her fingers clutched the cloth of his doublet, her grey eyes boring into his chest in a mix of judgment and worry.

"I want to talk to you, but we don't have much time." Lyanna looked down to the earth that was slowly becoming more life-sized below them. She shivered before resting her head upon his shoulder, seemingly melting into his grasp in a moment of weakness before raising herself once more. "Make an excuse, any excuse, let it just be you and I before the Heart's tree of the Haunted forest."

Did she wish to exchange vows? His heart pounded in his ribcage. She had told him how she wished to be married one day, standing before the Old gods rather than the New..but with him, today?

"Are you….?" He dared not voice it aloud, dared not confirm it in front of another soul. He pressed his palm further into her back, relishing in the warmth that lept off of her, ironic considering she was the ice to his fire.

"It's about Rhaenys." Lyanna did not speak until they reached the ground, refusing to speak more with him before she walked away, leaving him alone once more.

A/N:

I honestly meant to have this chapter lead into where Rhaenys is about to meet the Night's King, but then I had this dream that Rhaegar goes to kiss her and lightning strikes (I blame falling asleep to that Calvin Harris song with Rihanna), so here's this chapter haha. Next chapter will be in the haunted forest in Lyanna's POV, then the next chapter after that will be Rhaenys's POV leading into the next plot arc: RhaenysxNight's King.

Special thanks to SpicyRash and MrsTomMarvoldoRiddle for the reviews, it fuels me to write!


	13. Chapter 13

Lyanna told herself to be brave, to voice her concerns in front of the Old gods and they would protect her. It was a foolish thought, but one she clung to nonetheless. Yet now, riding atop of a horse as the leaves of the weirwood tree bloomed over them, she began to doubt herself.

Rhaenys chose to ride at Rhaegar's front, claiming her lack of use of a proper saddle made her unstable on her own, so the two rode atop a single mount. They painted a lovely picture, even Lyanna would admit, two lovers of silver hair wrapped in each other's arms with the snow's chill causing them to lean against one another in silent comfort. Rhaegar did not even pretend to look pained or uncomfortable with the arrangement, a slight smile on his face and eyes only for his betrothed.

A storm had come upon them as they approached the Haunted Forest, the wind howling as the Black Brothers urged them forward, claiming it to be safer under the cover of the trees rather than returning to the open fields leading them back to the Wall. Even clothed in layers of fur, she shivered in the cold, making Rhaenys's garb of silks laughable.

Though, if anyone were to be pitied for not wearing clothes that guarded from the chill, it was Aeyma, who Rhaenys had insisted on having accompany her wherever she went. Aeyma wore thick, sturdy boots and a nice cloak, but her gown was thin and did little against the cold, chafing wind. Aeyma rode her own horse, steady and sure while riding surrounded by supplies and enough goods to feast for weeks on smoked meats and watered wine. What made Lyanna wary was the sight of the intricately carved box that sat behind Aeyma, one with a sturdy silver lock that Rhaenys has brought with her from her homeland, though no one knew what it contained for sure.

"Rhaegar…" The wind carried Rhaenys's voice, both Lyanna and Aemya attempting to eavesdrop without being too noticeable. The lady curled into her betrothed, his cloak enveloping both their forms as they drew nearer to the heart tree. "I need to be honest with you, you deserve as much…" Her words held such pain yet when Lyanna glanced at Aeyma, she looked so afraid, her fingers clenching around the reins of her horse.

"Rhaenys, what is it?" Rhaegar attempting to speak softly, but the trees echoed his words, almost purposely. "Was I too forward before? I'm sorry, I-"

"No, you were well within your rights." Rhaenys interrupted him, casting her eyes towards the white bark, the grim face etched upon it glaring at her in silent condemnation. "I have been unfair to you, and shall be further still. You have been nothing but kind and loving towards me. I entered your life as a stranger meant to be your wife and you have shown me such...love." Her voice cracked as Lyanna stared in silent horror, watching the girl begin to weep in front of them all.

The Black Brothers seemed the most uncomfortable of all, glancing between one another and then to the woods beyond. Snow began to blanket the earth around them, picking up far quicker than Lyanna had ever witnessed, perhaps because they were so far north?

"Rhaenys...You are to be my queen, a role that suits you as well as silk, you were born to be a queen." Rhaegar's face softened as he clung to his betrothed, soothing her. He glanced up for but a moment, yet once he saw the pained look on Lyanna's face, he dared not look anywhere but at his weeping future wife.

"I was born to be _the Queen_ , not a queen." There was an edge to her voice that spooked all around them, causing Lyanna to flinch, while Rhaegar only sighed, producing a puff of breath that it was not cold enough for a moment ago. Why was the temperature dropping so rapidly? "I'm sorry, Rhaegar...for this, for everything…"

The party stopped before the heart tree with Lyanna the first off of her horse. She moved as though to pray before the tree, when in reality she was watching the lover's spat unfold before her. Rhaegar and Rhaenys both held such looks of pain, the lady dismounting as the Black Brothers followed. Snow pelted from the ground as clouds of breathing fogged over the enclosed space.

Rhaenys moved towards the tree and Lyanna gasped, for the face of the tree seemed to move, to grow severe as the eyes became troubled, the face a frown. Aeyma flocked to the side of her mistress, bearing a freshly lit torch. When did it become so dark? The slave was whispering, though it was to the flame and not Rhaenys, a dark spell in a tongue Lyanna did not speak. Drawing a blade from her skirts, Aeyma sliced her palm and handed the knife, wet with her own blood, to Rhaenys.

"What are you doing?" Lyanna cried, eyes wide with horror as Rhaenys cut into her own hand before swiping the fire against the metal and driving it into the aghast face of the tree. An unholy sound pierced the air, a wail that shook the very ground beneath them.

Rhaegar moved towards his beloved, only to be blocked by the Crows. The burliest of them swung his arms around the prince's middle, pinning his arms despite his attempts to break free. "Arthur!" Rhaegar called out in panic, only for a Crow to laugh as realization struck: Arthur had been ill that morning, a stomach bug they assumed, but now he feared poison at the sight of the traitors.

Lyanna lunged at Rhaenys before anyone drew closer, pulling her down into the snow and mud beneath the tree weeping sap from its wound. "What have you done?" Her words were shrill with panic as a rumbling sound drew closer, the heart trees shaking off their leaves as the snow fell harder and harsher than before.

"Get off of me!" Rhaenys lashed out at Lyanna, her fingers clawing at the other woman's hair, latching onto it and using the strands to yank her opponent away from her. Pain bloomed in Lyanna's arm, the edge of the dagger in the tree had sliced her just above the elbow, leaving an angry red mark. "Aeyma!" The lady snarled at her servant, who finished her chant and thrusted the torch towards the woman, the flames dancing with dark delight.

The wind howled with a greater intensity as the shadows lengthened, figures forming in the trees as branches snapped, announcing their arrival. Rhaenys held the flame aloft, lighting the dying hearts tree on fire. Lyanna watched in mute horror as creatures appeared, at first she thought they were wildlings, but the free folk do not glow with blue eyes. The Crows all pulled at their layers of fur, revealing different exposed patches of skin. Lyanna gawked as a man revealed a patch of white around his neck, where a burned outline of a hand around his throat was faintly glowing white. The dead seemed to recognise the markings, for they avoided those men and turned to Lyanna instead, a child with a hole in his chest wide enough to fit her hand limped towards her, hands outstretched.

The majority of the dead looked to Rhaegar, hissing and groaning as they moved to attack him. She moved to save him, to do anything, but a crow stopped her, "The dead will not listen to you, girl, only her." He motioned towards Rhaenys, who already moved in front of Rhaegar, hands shaking but eyes alight.

"You. Will. Not. Touch. Him." Each word was punctuated with a wave of her torch, the flames licking greedily at the steadily burning wood of the trees around them, though it seemed to actively avoid the silver-haired woman. The creatures recoiled as she thrust the torch at them, Rhaegar watching aghast all the while. "He is mine!" Lyanna thought back to the burns on Aeyma's hands and the way all of Rhaenys's entourage looked and acted, like possessions. Was that all people were to Rhaenys, Lyanna wondered, just people to collect?

"But you do not belong to him." Standing in the heat of the flames, Lyanna watched Rhaenys shiver as a burly man atop a dying horse appeared with a woman riding on another equally starved beast. "You belong to the Night's King, girl."

"What?" Lyanna and Rhaegar spoke in unison as a flash of guilt crossed Rhaenys's face before a mask of indifference slid into place. It was unbearable, the heat of the flames that quickly consumed the ancient trees mixed with the ever growing chill of the dead, but Rhaenys stood as if she were greeting a lover, the flames basking her in a glowing light amidst the darkness she had brought down upon herself.

"Call off your beasts, leave him and the Stark girl unharmed and we shall leave peacefully." Rhaenys vowed, though Lyanna could see the hand not holding the torch shaking.

"And if I kill them all and deposit you to _him_?" Craster laughed, holding a hand out from atop his horse as if he expected Rhaenys to simply climb up and ride away with him.

"A vow was made and a vow shall be kept." Rhaenys hissed, glancing at the Crows who silently watched the exchange, weapons drawn and still weary of the dead who had stopped their movement the moment Rhaenys raised her torch. She waved it about, grinning at the sight of the wights recoiling from it, shuffling away from the blooming fires around them and slowly entrapping the living. "I am Rhaenys, last daughter of the house of Belaerys, remember your place dog, for We Stand Above All."

Even Lyanna would admit, she was a sight to behold. With flames fanning her back and the dead following her every move, Rhaenys was terrifying, unhinged with power in a way only a person who grew up knowing they were _someone_ could be _._ Aeyma, who had stood silently after her strange chanting, bolted in front of her mistress and began to whisper furiously, her eyes silently begging, suing for peace, even.

Rhaenys face softened, though her eyes were still razor sharp, "Let them remained unharmed and I shall mount your horse and allow you to take me to him, harm them in any way and I shall burn us all to the ground." Both her hands were shaking now as she tilted the torch, the flames from the burning trees bending towards her, dancing across the ground and twisting towards them all, causing the Crows to jump back.

Craster merely laughed, "A bride of Fire indeed." He lifted his palm and motioned her forward, grasping her hand and pulling her atop his mount.

Aeyma moved to join her, her own mount standing nervously next to the woman's own steed, the brunette looked weary of the slave. "She knows too much to be left behind." Rhaenys stated as Aeyma mounted her own horse.

Still restrained by the Black Brothers, Rhaegar stared at her, tracks of tears silently falling down his perfect face, and Lyanna noticed that Rhaenys mirrored his salty expression of woe, 'I'm sorry.' She mouthed to him, silently apologizing as the flames caused a tree to fall between them, separating the two groups with a wall of fire.

Lyanna watched in mute horror as they rode away, their shadows casting reflections on the ground. The creak of chains could be heard, with Rhaenys's protests followed by a sharp slap, was she being restrained? Lyanna glared at the retreating forms before realization struck her with the heat of the flames. The wierwoods were burning, yet the twigs on the ground and any other material remained unharmed, unburnt. Was this the result of Aeyma's chanting...a spell?

The Black Brothers stood warily still, still holding the two nobles captive as the dead formed a semi circle around them, trapping them between animated corpses and fire. Lyanna shivered, weeping before the burning symbols of her faith. It was not until the last leaf of the once great weirwood tree burned that the dead returned to their natural state, eyes dimming of the blue light as they dropped to the ground, no longer animated. The Crows nodded to one another solemnly before grabbing a sturdy chunk of wood and with a strong whack, sent the prince sprawling at her feet, unconscious but alive.

"It's just you and us...mi'lady." The burly Black Brother grinned at Lyanna with a predator's gaze, moving towards her with outstretched hands.

"Please…." The plea fell from her lips as she began to quiver, she felt the need to run but she was still restrained, the men circling her like prey.

"We have orders." It was the wandering crow who spoke, his hand drifting to the dagger at his side. "You saw first hand what she can do, imagine once she is with _him."_

"Do you honestly think she'll hear we had some fun with the prince's mistress?" The burly man laughed, grabbing a fist full of Lyanna's hair, causing her to cry out.

"They are not to be harmed, they are to return untouched to the Wall and flee as far south as they can." The Wandering Crow emphasised, making Lyanna wonder just how long Rhaenys had been planning this coupe. She winced when the burly man's hand wandered down her dress, to her breast, his meaty paw squeezing on her flesh. The man who defended her simply sighed at this, drawing and plunging his dagger into the left eye of the burly man, who died with a pitiful gurgle, his literal dead weight collapsing on top of her.

The remaining men who had simply watched the exchange unfold moved to grab the rotting corpses, dragging them into the fire and watching them burn. The Wandering Crow picked up the wood used to incapacitate Rhaegar, and with a solid thunk, Lyanna's world went black.

A/N:

I keep adding and rewriting this chapter because I'm never satisfied with it, so I hope you like it! I have the next chapter written, because it's when Rhaenys meets the Night's King, so it was actually one of the first chapters I had written for this fic. It's a bit short (about 800 words), but will lead into the next arc rather nicely. I'll post it after this chapter gets 3 reviews (3 is my lucky number haha).


	14. Chapter 14

The stone slab was cold against her skin, the snow weeping from the sky only adding to her shivers. She did not know when she began to cry, but her tears stopped their streaks half way down her face, frozen as the temperature lowered by the second. This was not how it was supposed to happen, not how she was _promised_ it would happen. She could have laughed then, she had been promised so much and given so little.

Rhaenys shivered upon the altar, a sacrifice ripe for the taking if one could break the chains that Caster used to keep her meek and restrained, they chafed upon her wrists and she would not be surprised if they left angry scars upon her delicate skin. Her breath slowly fogged around her, and her weeping began anew. _'Rhaegar...please, Rhaegar…'_ Even in her private thoughts, she never thought she would beg for anyone, let alone the Silver Prince she had tricked into falling in love with her. But he would not come, she knew, he had Lyanna now, the Northern flower blooming into a woman before their very eyes, and everyone seemed to have noticed. The way they both looked at her, disgusted and aghast, both would no doubt turn their backs on her now. With Rhaenys lost, a betrothal between the Starks and the Targaryens could be easily forged, the Baratheon's easily paid off by the crown, to whom they were kin through Lady Rhaelle, Lord Baratheon's mother and a former dragon herself. Rhaenys prayed that her threats would keep them safe, that the Wandering Crow would escort them back to the Wall shaken but unharmed.

"We stand...above... all." Her words shook with the weight of their meaning, and Rhaenys clung to the thoughts of home, of the warmth of Illyria, of her mother's smile and her father's laugh. She was supposed to be a dragon, fire made flesh, yet still she shivered as the snow pelted from above, renewed with the vigor that she was there, that she was waiting for _him._ "We...stand...above...all." It was a mantra in her head, a song to keep her breathing, keep her alive if for nothing more than to spite the gods themselves.

Rhaenys curled in upon herself, bringing her knees to her chest as the chains rattled a death knell in her ears, the flimsy silk of her gown no match for the winter being brought to her, and she placed her head upon her knees and slowly closed her eyes, frozen in place. _'If only Aeyma were here.'_ She thought to herself, but Aeyma was at Craster's keep still, afraid that if _he_ were to come upon her with anyone else they would perish...turn to pure ice even. It seemed almost laughable, the image of Aeyma formed into a being of ice, Rhaenys closed rested her eyes and clung to the thought of fire, not ice.

She did not know if she fell asleep, but when she opened her eyes, the storm roared with renewed vigor, and she watched in a daze as a shadow sprung from the eye of the storm itself, and glowing blue eyes drank her in. She had no strength to resist him, perhaps that was his plan all along, to have a weak and half dead woman for a bride. So, she simply smiled softly and closed her eyes once more, laughing mirthlessly to herself as the thought of the insult passed through her mind, _'Others take me.'_

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Rage, pure and untempered flared within him at the sight that greeted him in the forest north of Craster's keep, the shivering bundle upon the altar, half frozen and barely alive. She was meant to be his wife, and Craster left her with less to keep warm than he had his own babes. The King of Winter had spent years accumulating his army and his court with Craster's sons, he had shown them more care than their own father had, and every Other with him knew who their lord was, him.

Then there was Rhaenys, the bride promised to him centuries ago, curled into a ball with lips as blue as his own eyes, a ghost of a smile upon her face and he swore he could hear her muttering to herself as he approached, a broken tune repeating itself, "We...stand...above...all." His very presence made the temperature drop, and the words seemed to be the only warmth she had as she clung to life. Pale as freshly driven snow, she was beautiful...winter became her, it seemed. He lifted her into his arms, careful to never touch her bare, creamy skin as he wrapped her in his own tattered cloak and lifted her onto his skeletal horse. He had thought himself as cold as the touch of death, but his bride shivered so harshly that in her sleep she clung to him for warmth, not realizing he had none to give. She was to be his flame, his bride of fire, and looking down upon her, he almost saw the Queen he had lost so long ago. _"Born of Ice, born of Fire, the love you seek will live again when magic's life is most dire."_ The prophecy was his wife's last words, and he clung to them in his grief as he ventured further and further north, desperate to fulfill the claim that would return her to him.

He had thought himself a fool for believing it as he grieved for hundreds of years, bringing storms and ice to the furthest lands of the continent, raging through his loss. It was not until word came of a dragon flying in the distance that hope sprung up new, for Aelyx Baelarys had witnessed the Doom of Valyria itself, and surely the loss of magic's home would leave it's life in most dire straits, so he allowed the man into his castle of ice, and watched the fool kneel before the throne of Night and beg that magic be saved through the prophecy of Daenys the Dreamer.

"I have come to fulfill the Pace of Ice and Fire. To take a bride of Ice so that I might save magic, and renew it with life." The lord was pompous, a fool, really, and when the Night's King laughed, the Others laughed with him.

 _"A bride of Ice has lived and died, her final words a prophecy for your line, from blood of your blood, a bride will come, bring her to me, and magic will live everlasting."_ He replied with a dull trill, not daring to appear as though he wished for the woman more than this man would ever know.

A/N:

And they're together! Next chapter: Rhaegar has a dragon dream...


	15. Chapter 15

Rhaegar awoke with a spinning head, or at least he thought he had awoke, for the sight of an old man in a black cloak greeted his eyes when he opened them. "Maester Aemon?" His voice was groggy, so he cleared his throat and attempted to sit up, only to see he was not in Castle Black, or even the haunted forest, but Winterfell. Though, it seemed different, the people shuffled about with fear in their eyes, with clothes that seemed far too old fashioned, even for the North.

"The dragon whom you refer to is my nephew, though quite a few times removed." The voice was brittle, aged beyond comprehension as sunken purple eyes watched Rhaegar shift to his feet and glance about the courtyard, though no one seemed to take notice of them. In fact, it was almost as if they did not see them at all.

A man walked through the doorway, sending the rest of the populus into a frenzy, for they all stopped what they were doing and bowed deeply before the man with a crown of swords upon his brow. The direwolf emblazoned upon his chest seemed to snarl at Rhaegar, the fine silver thread must have taken hours to create, though the tunic was splattered with mud and what appeared to be blood, burnt black and encrusted into the fabric. "People of the North!" The man, no the king, spoke with absolute authority, commanding his subjects with precision. "Today, begins a new era, an end to the practice of dark spells and blood magic!"

The man in the black cloak scoffed, "He ended blood magic with blood magic." Watery purple eyes glared at the king, a strand of dark hair draping over his brow, "It does not take a thousand eyes to see the error he is making."

"Brynden Rivers?" Rhaegar blurted, scrambling to his feet and almost slamming into a peasant from the crowd, though his flailing arm went through the woman's body, as if he were a ghost, a vapor of air. "Am I dreaming? Surely, I must be." Rhaegar attempted to reason to himself, though when he gripped his arm he felt the tension under his skin, in what sort of dream can the dreamer feel?

"You are unconscious." Brynden admitted with a shrug, "It is more of a vision than a dream, I suppose. Your blood is strong, else I would not have been able to reach you without help from the trees." His eyes flashed with a sadness that mirrored the loss of a loved one.

A large chest was brought in, emblazoned with strange symbols that glowed a faint blue, presented before the king who then opened the lid with a squeal, raising the contents for all to see. The severed head was not dipped in wax or preserved in tar, though it showed no rot, if anything the head revealed a face of rest. Rhaegar, quickly realizing that no one could see him, scrambled to get a better look at the body part, though his stomach lurched when he realized it was of a young, beautiful woman.

Her hair was white, as bright as snow, with pale skin and an expression of serenity despite her gruesome end. "The Ice Queen shall inflict no more dark magic upon this land, the blood link once forged has been severed!" The man took a pike and impaled the head upon it, motioning forward a slew of men carrying a large stone statue. The stone depicted a man in his mid-twenties, with a stern, Stark face, handsome even in cold depiction. The king stabbed the pike into the ground in front of it, before taking the pommel of his sword and smashing the face of the statue. A howl echoed the walls of Winterfell, demonic and unholy, before what appeared to be a child huddled underneath a cloak appeared, though when the hood fell back, Rhaegar realized the creature was not human at all.

"The Witch of Winter shall hold no more dominion over the Children of the Forest!" A man clothed in the furs of a white bear, still mounted atop his horse, glared down at the severed head from the entrance of the keep, seemingly reluctant to even enter the seat of the Starks.

"What is this?" Rhaegar questioned, spinning to face the withered old man who had summoned him here in the first place.

"The alliance forged by the Children of the Forest, the North and the Free Folk, as you call them." The Three-Eyed Raven responded, "They killed his queen, thinking it would stop him, but she had already changed him forevermore. Have you heard the tales of the Night King? Of his origin?"

The world seemed to flummox and change, as if he had sucked into something and suddenly lost his footing. Rhaegar stumbled forward, only to realize he was no longer in Winterfell, but standing before the same weirwood that he saw burn, when Rhaenys was taken from him. Yet it was not the same, the snow fell heavier, the face was a stern frown and not an outright glare etched on the face of the bark, and movement filled the area, woodland creatures resembling small humans scattered about, dragging a half dead man between them.

"He loved her, you know. It would lead to his doom, but a part of him knew that...Have you ever watched two pieces of ice brush against one another?" The man stared into his soul, dark and brooding behind white eyelashes, "They either break or mold into one another, and she filled every empty corner of his heart, his soul, his body. But what do the Children know of such all consuming love?"

His words were broken by a howl of agony, the man was being chained to the tree itself, one of the woodland creatures stood with a shaking hand, holding a dragon glass dagger that seemed to be hand-whittled.

"How dare you!" The man snarled, even when he wounds wept with blood as he continued to fight the bondage, brown eyes alight with rage and indignation. The weirwood bark seemed to sizzle against his flesh, causing him an agony the man did not seem to even register. "I am the King of the Night!" The arrogance held little weight with the Children of the Forest, who brandished a long, jagged blade and raised it aloft.

"That's the same creature, from before." Rhaegar noted darkly, with Brynden Rivers nodding with a grim frown.

"Her name is Leaf, she did what she thought was right." The Three-eyed Raven replied, "Brandon the Builder headed her warnings, but it was not enough, a few generations later, the Others arrived, and their Queen took a King, a Stark no less."

Rhaegar walked closer to the man as he screamed curses at the Children, emboldened by their lack of sight, he studied the victim, noting the long face, strong jaw, and dark hair. He reminded Rhaegar of the Wandering Wolf, Rodrick Stark, only with brown eyes instead of grey. He was handsome, really, a dark mop of hair splayed across his eyes and a brooding expression on his face as he spat and howled.

In mute horror, Rhaegar watched the Children of the Forest hold the man down as Leaf raised the dagger aloft and plunged it into the man's chest, right through the heart. The smell of sizzling flesh assaulted Rhaegar's nose, and he reeled back at the sight of the man as he lost his humanity. Screams echoed across the glen of trees, the golden leaves burning black with blood as the Stark jerked and writhed.

"What's happening to him?" Rhaegar demanded of the Three-eyed Raven, who simply stared at him solemnly, as if he had already known the answer. The prince turned back to the man, but he was no longer a man at all, for where the dagger had pierced him the skin was quickly turning blue, tendrils of ice spreading across his chest until there was no trace of the Stark look to him, only that of an Other.

"They tried to kill the dark magic within him, but they only killed the little humanity he had left." Brynden informed him, stepping back so his image would not be ripped through as the Night's King was reborn into the image the world knew him as, blue eyes alight as he broke through the chains that bound him and launched himself at the Children in the way a wild animal would, all tooth and claws.

He seemed to be aiming for Leaf, who inflicted such a fate upon him, but the Child ran, leaving her comrades to fight and die in her place. Rhaegar watched her flee, though he remained rooted the spot he stood, afraid for a moment that with his new found strength, the creature would be able to truly see him.

The Night's King stood to his full height, seemingly having grown taller in the way that he stood, shoulders squared and chest puffed out as he huffed from exertion. Blue eyes met purple for an instant as Brynden grabbed Rhaegar's arm. "We must leave." The Three-eyed Raven commanded. Yet as the world he saw faded away, the last thing Rhaegar registered was the creature, smirking at him in challenge.

It was disorienting, travelling through time and space, or perhaps it was the sudden jerk of his dream, Rhaegar could not pinpoint exactly what was happening to him, for now he was in a place he had never seen, a great and old structure of a castle, surrounded by snow and ice.

"The Nightfort, the strongest and mightiest castle upon the Wall." Brynden told him, though Rhaegar scoffed at the notion. He had been to the Wall, and the Crows warned him that the structures spanning the miles of ice were old, rickety and beyond repair from time and disuse.

The world shifted again, and they were standing with the Wall in plain view, though they were looking southward at it, from beyond the land of Westeros. A large lake was frozen over with a thick layer of ice, the barest bit of sun causing it to glow faintly. The water underneath seemed to light up a bright blue, the same as the woman's eyes that he saw on the spike, though he shuddered at the thought. "It's beautiful…" Rhaegar mumbled, mainly to himself, through his ancestor smirked in amusement.

"There was a clan of Free Folk who believed the water protected them, provided for them. Then one day a child drowned, a baby boy abandoned by his mother since he was born so small in the dead of winter, a mercy killing really, and the next day spring came, yet even in the hottest of days, the water never thawed." As Brynden spoke, people decked in furs appeared, taking a blade and breaking a piece of the ice away from the surface and pressing it onto their children's foreheads, as if blessing them with the ice. "It became a holy site, no one would fish from the river, no one would drink from the water, it was used only to bless."

The scene changed again, the wildlings disappeared and a long shadow filled the sky, twisting and turning. In awe, Rhaegar watched a dragon collapse from the sky, as big as he imagined Balerion the Black Dread to be, a magnificent beast with scales of blue and white, though she dropped from the sky with uneven wings, her sheer weight causing the ice to crack and crumble. It was not until a scream echoed that Rhaegar realized the beast had a rider, a Valyrian beauty with the same face as the severed head he saw before, only her eyes and hair mirrored his own.

His weight had no effect on the crackling ice, so Rhaegar deftly moved across it, attempting to save her only to realize that he was viewing the past, he could do nothing to stop it. Standing shoulder to shoulder with Brynden, the two watched in silent agony as the woman and her dragon drowned in the icy water, the former held down by the weight of the later.

Time sped up for a moment, the sun set and the moon rose, slowing down once more when a person appeared, a wildling like those before, clutching a babe to her chest. The woman paused in horror, noting the shattered ice, and called out to her brethren, who hid in the trees beyond. The water sloshed and moved beneath the ice as a figure floated forward towards the shore and the woman standing there, revealing the woman who rode the dragon, though her features seemed sharper, colder, her hair a bright white and eyes an icy, star blue.

The wildling woman turned to run, but her feet caught and she fell, cradling the babe to her chest. Rhaegar shivered as the woman from the water ripped the babe from his mother, exposing his bare flesh to the air as the water dripping from her hair fell on the babe, slowing turning his skin into a blueish white, the creature smiled at the babe, who stopped his crying and began to coo, the brown of his eyes morphing into the same shade as the woman holding him.

"What did she do to him?" Rhaegar asked Bryden, knowing better now than to attempt to interfere. It was almost as if he were watching a play, the events unfolding outside of his reach to change them.

"Created the first of the Others, forged in Ice." Bryden replied, "Her name was Seryna Belaerys, she was fleeing from Valyria, and her brother."

Rhaegar stumbled backwards, as if the words had made a physical impact. "Belaerys?" He echoed, the weight of knowledge hanging heavily upon him. Everything seemed to click into place, Rhaenys's insistance of travelling to the Wall, her sudden heart broken apology, the promise she made that he would not be harmed, had she planned for all of this?

With a numb body and racing mind, Rhaegar did not even notice when the scene shifted again, to reveal the Night's King, still human and wearing the cloak of the Night's Watch, staring into the flames of a campfire with his men, when a song floated through the air. The words were in High Valyrian, which caught Rhaegar off guard, for it was the same song he and Rhaenys once sung together.

"The sky it falls around us now, the sea...it quivers...it shakes." The voice was lilting, weighted with sorrows yet travelling with an airy tone. The men surrounding the King slumped forward, as if asleep from a spell, and the man stood, drawing his sword. "Just hold me tight, lover mine, until the fire consumes us all."

The woman appeared, cloaked in white and practically floating, for where she stepped the ice made no imprint, her hair glowing softly as she sang with heartbreak. The Stark flew forward, and the woman gave chase, the haunting notes of the melody still echoing. It seemed as though no matter how fast he ran, she moved faster, until he stopped in front of the lake from before, where she led him. The woman stood at the center of the frozen water, and when he saw he could not follow her, he sighed and with a deep voice called out to her in the same language she had sang before, though his words were broken, "Just hold me as the world consumes, the fire of our lives...and I will not…" The Stark paused, stumbling to translate the words to the song.

"I thought the song was played after the Doom." Rhaegar noted, struggling to remember his history lessons, the tale of the Night's King and his bride were more lore than anything.

"It became popular then." Brynden replied, "Though it had been sung by nobles for far longer." The older man motioned with his arm towards the two they were observing, for the man had moved towards the woman, despite the ice crackling under his feet. He seemed in a trance, caught up in the woman's allure, her feral smile and bright eyes.

"And with his seed, he gave her his soul…" Rhaegar echoed the words of the legend every child of Westeros heard growing up, a dark tale meant to scare naughty children.

"And soon he shall take Rhaenys's soul in turn, and a blood bond shall be formed." Eyes hooded, Brynden pressed his hand against Rhaegar's chest, pushing him backwards.

The sensation of falling overwhelmed Rhaegar, and when his eyes opened once more, there was an all encompassing heaviness, and the feeling of someone's hand holding his. A woman, sitting at his bedside, weeping and calling his name, begging him to wake up. Blinking, he attempted to focus his eyes, "Rhaenys?" His voice, cracked and groggy from misuse, startled him. He closed his eyes again, opening them when he felt able, to see the broken look Lyanna was giving him.

A/N:

Welcome to the second plot arc, everyone! This part of the story will include flashbacks/dreams in order to flesh out the Night King's past. I refer to him as a Stark, but haven't revealed his name yet partially because I'm not sure what I want him to be called. His name was blacked out of history, so I have free reign on it, so I'm taking suggestions!

There isn't a lot of info on the Night's King or his bride, so I'm using my own plot and changing a few things (like instead of the Children creating the Night's King on purpose, they do so accidentally). His bride is never named, so I'm mirroring the plot point in King Arthur with the Lady of the Lake. As always, enjoy and review!


	16. Chapter 16

When Rhaenys opened her eyes, she was struck by how warm she felt, despite first seeing the heavily falling snow. It clung to her lashes, numbed her fingertips, yet she did not feel the cold. She was resting against someone, she could feel the steady thrum of a horse trotting along, the creak of leathers that the rider wore and for a moment she was content to simply close her eyes once more and relax into the other person's form. Had it all been a dream? The chains that chafed her wrists were gone, though she could feel the healing bruises still, and she thought of Rhaegar and Aeyma. Aeyma was loyal to a fault, she had fought like a creature from the Seventh Hell to remain with her, even after Craster put a dagger to her neck and demanded she remain at his keep, perhaps even become a part of his harem of wives, adding fresh blood to the mix. Rhaenys hated that man, her heart aching for the girls who went from daughters to wives in the eyes of the same crude monster.

She smiled, thinking of what it would be like to see him drown. In Elyria it was a common practice, to stand on the soft, sandy shores of her home and watch criminals flail in the water, their bodies trapped in a cage with a pulley system so they could be submerged and surfaced, over and over again until they were blubbering and pleading. She had tried to show a woman mercy once, to allow her to live, she ordered for her to be released and taken into the keep. Rhaenys herself was but a child, no more than eight name days yet already acutely aware of her father's wrath. She hid the woman in the poorest of guest chambers, but Lord Aelor had found them, grabbed onto her small wrist and pressed a dragon bone dagger into her palm. The woman did not even resist at that point, simply allowed Rhaenys's hand and her father's force to end the criminal's life. Thick and red blood coated her childish form, and she later learned that the woman was being punished for blood magic, she had tried to reanimate her own child's corpse.

After that she had taken such joy in watching them drown, for it meant no blood fell onto her hands. Though, for Craster she would make an exception, to see his blood mix with the snow would fill her with a twisted sort of pleasure she had not previously thought herself capable of.

A shift in movement behind her reminded her of where she was, although she herself was only partially aware. She finally blinked her eyes open once more, surprising herself that she had closed them after only seeing the falling snow. A faint blue hue seemed to glow around her, reflecting off the white and illuminating the barren patch of land they were trodding across. She shifted where she lay draped, and felt the person she rested against stiffen ever so slightly, focusing her eyes she first stared at the hands holding the reins, strong, masculine palms with the same faint icy glow. It was her betrothed, she realized all at once, her true betrothed, not the puppet one. He wore leather bracers on his wrists, which tied with thick thread onto his shirt, a leather lined doublet from a style that reminded her of the pictures drawn from before the Doom. She twisted herself, allowing her eyes to slowly wander up his form, he was not decayed or corpse-like, as she had feared, but humming with a strange sense of life. It was as if death had come for him and he fought the beast off, proving himself worthy of a supposed immortality.

Was it her own flesh, radiating against his clothes, that brought such warmth to her? The weariness that had settled into her bones seemed to have suddenly lifted, a weight she had grown used to that left her suddenly so light. He made no move to stop her as her fingers splayed across his own, a gasp stifled in her throat when she felt the soothing chill that rested within him, her hands slowly winding up his arms, as if memorizing the feel and shape of him. They did not stop moving, the sound of multiple horses' hooves sloshing in the snow and her own ragged breathing the only sound in the dead of winter. Her fingertips moved to his torso, slipping beneath the fabric of what she assumed was a casual armor, half leather, half cloth, and her palm pressed against where his heart lay, still and unbeating. Her own seemed to race when his own dominant hand moved to mimic her actions, slowly trailing up the white fabric of her dress and pressing against her rib cage. Flesh against flesh, she dared to look him in the eyes for the first time. They were a brilliant blue, faintly glowing in the same way those who surrounded them's flesh did, the crackle of magic in the air, something she had not felt since she took the witch's life as a child, there was blood magic at work.

Part of her expected to feel pain radiate from where he touched her, but there was none. She was pinned by his eyes, drinking her in, surprised at her lack of fear. "Hello…" She felt foolish as soon as the whisper of a greeting left her lips, then frightened for the first time when the realization that every man in the party had turned to stare at her the moment she spoke, a dark expectation lurking all around her. The dead did not ride atop horses, but walked or rather, stumbled along, while the Others rode beasts of decay, though everyone was quickly staring at her, with a silent sort of expectation.

The Night's King glanced about, noticing her expression, and the rest of the party stopped moving as she and her betrothed continued trotting along. He had ordered them to give the two space, without having to utter a word. Silence reigned for a few long moments, until the Others and the dead were almost out of sight, before he chose to speak. "Hello." It was a statement made from a voice crackling with disuse, a deep baritone she did not expect.

She paused at that, unsure of what to say before the first thought to come to her was spoken aloud, half on accident, "Where is Aeyma?" She felt foolish the moment she said it, but in a moment of strangeness she yearned for familiarity, for her handmaiden who followed her every order, who bore her temper and her grief, kept her secrets and insisted upon taking care of her since she was a child. She would not say she cared for her any more than most did for their servants, but she still did feel a sense of loss without her by her side.

A deep chuckle vibrated from his chest, rattling her bones as her eyes widened. Was he laughing at her? Then again, she was riding atop of a decaying horse with a creature of legend, and had the nerve to ask after her servant. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment and for the first time in a long while she felt out of place, unsure of herself.

"The Bootlicker desired her, but I see you do as well." He looked straight ahead as he spoke, his eyes unflinching despite the quickly falling snow, "I shall send one of my men back, to fetch her." The hand that did not hold the reins flicked backwards, sending the tiniest pulse of blue backwards, towards where the Others were. She craned her neck to look behind them, following the pale light as it flickered and a sound of receding hooves followed.

She smirked at the name given to Craster, amused at the idea of him grovelling. Rhaenys was surprised by the silent intimacy she had just realized they rested within, for she was resting against his chest, legs draped as if she were riding side saddle, his arms around her to keep her in place. "And my horse and belongings?"

He was silent, but the air was not tense. It was too bold, but she had to ask. There was but one chest carried on her horse, shielding two gowns and her dragon corpse. She had vowed to keep it with her always, even after she took her wedding vows. They were to be wed, she knew, but a part of her wondered what sort of ceremony it would be. In her homeland, the bride and groom made a blood pact, slicing each other's palms and letting the mixed blood drop into a fire, the ashes saved to bless their child. Though she did not remember it, her father had marked her forehead as well as the corpse of what would have been her dragon, binding her to a dead thing as well as her living parents.

Would they do the same? Or would they uphold the tradition of Westeros, of the Seven Gods or those of the trees of the Old Gods of the North? She dared not ask, lest she seem eager to be his bride and all that it entailed.

Rhaenys remained silent, musing over thoughts of being the Night's King's Queen, the Night's Queen, the Queen of the Night? Titles in the world were paramount, though she did not know what to even call herself. 'You are Rhaenys Belaerys, and you stand above all.' A voice whispered, so strangely like her father's yet also her own, and she recalled shivering in the snow, repeating her house words to herself in an attempt to stay alive.

Before them, a large mountain appeared in the shape of a fist, a structure of metal and wood yet reinforced by what her untrained eye perceived to be ice, though she could not give a rational method of production of such a structure, outside of magic. It reminded her of the Wall, fortified and secure, though without a sign of life within it.

More of the Others appeared on the battlements of the keep, seemingly the same as the icy walls, unblinking and nonplussed at the arrival of their king. Though they stared at her in silent expectation, they knew who she was and what she represented.

When her true betrothed dismounted from the horse, she moved to follow, but he raised a palm to tell her to remain still, and he walked the horse and her through the gates and into the courtyard, where he then grabbed her waist and pulled her down before she had a chance to slip down herself.

He looped his arm through hers, surprising her with his courtly manner, and began to escort her towards the lone, tall tower with its face towards the rocky mountain. The steps were damp from the ice, though she only noticed when she began to slip, a cry caught in her throat as she winced, preparing for the harsh stone against her spine. Instead a familiar warmth enveloped her, her breath fogging with the chill as she panted, finding herself in the arms of the Night's King. He smirked at her, the first expression she had ever seen upon his face, as he cradled her in his arms and continued to climb the tower steps.

Rhaenys struggled to calm her rapidly beating heart, training her eyes on the stone walls as they winded their way up the three flights of steep steps to the lone room at the precipice. He kicked the wooden door open with a loud creak, surprising her with his gentleness as he placed her down on a chair piled with furs. Her nose itched from the dust, and she wondered how old the skins were. The hearth was unlit, but stacked flush with logs, he did not move to light it, but motioned for her to do so. He was not a fan of fire, it seemed, which made her laugh aloud before she got herself.

He stared at her, silently questioning, and she only laughed harder. "The bride of Fire for the king of Ice…" She laughed so hard, her belly ached, "I have never had to light my own fire in my life!" Rhaenys felt like a fool, laughing over her own inadequacies. The king did not share her laugh, he simply grabbed her by her wrist, commanding yet not rough, and for the first time she felt the chill of his flesh. He coaxed her towards the hearth, took her hand and drew a blade of icy blue.

"What are you doing?" For the first time since waking in his arms, she was afraid. The blade pierced her finger, a small gash the size of a paper cut welled with blood, a single drop weeping onto the wood. She winced.

"Dracarys." He whispered, his voice apologetic, his face concerned by her fear. When she did not move or speak, he repeated the word again, "Dracarys."

"Dracarys." She parroted, jumping out of her skin when a fire roared to life beneath their overlapping hands, a spark of warmth pouring over her body. Was this magic? No, was this blood magic?

She smiled, giggling in a moment of childish glee before wrapping her arms around him in an embrace, before pointing down to the fire that he had backed them away from, "Dracarys!" Rhaenys felt like a child receiving their first pony, the world suddenly an open and exciting place, with endless possibilities.

The Night's King seemed surprised by her sudden display of affection, though he returned it by wrapping the furs around her tightly. "I will fetch you food." His voice still crackled, his words slow and deliberate, as though the common tongue was a language he was unused to using, though she still enjoyed the sound of his voice.

A/N:

And here we are! Welcome to the love story between Rhaenys and her king! So I'm making up my own backstory for the Night's King as mentioned in the last A/N, and I just wanted to say that my version of the Night's King is different than in the show, if you to the asoiaf wiki page, there's a drawing of the Night's King based on the lore, that I like and am basing my mental image of the character off of. As always, please review!


	17. Chapter 17

He watched her, even after she had stopped paying attention to him, as she dipped her hand into the flames and let them lick her flesh. She was powerful, though still asleep, his bride waiting to be awakened. Rhaenys looked so much like Seryna, a wild, cold beauty, timid yet prone to ferocity. She was the one he had waited for, since the fall of Valyria, generations ago. Yet she still looked at him with such fear sometimes, had winced at his charcoal voice. Was she displeased with him because he was not the bonnie prince she had traveled the expanse of Westeros with? He should have killed Rhaegar, bled him out for the magic in his blood, but Rhaenys had told him he would not be harmed, a pact made by his betrothed that he could not break.

"Dracarys" Her voice was musical, soft as velvet, as she used her nail to widen the small prick on her finger, the drop of blood splashing against the fire and causing it to roar up so fiercely she jumped backwards. He could see in her face she had never used magic before, though he knew why. A pact was forged, one that required their union, dragons and magic went hand in hand, yet a bride of fire had been denied from him. Over the years he had felt it: the swell of power as the seed of house Baelerys grew, yet never had a daughter grown to maturity before Rhaenys's mother, yet she had been denied for him, stolen by her brother. What a great irony that was, that his previous bride, the woman who had bequeathed the powers he wielded today, had been fleeing a marriage to her sibling, yet his new bride was the product thereof.

Rhaenys stood after brooding over the fire for a long while and turned to her trunk, opening it to pull out the skin and bones that were left of her dragon. In truth it looked as though it were sleeping, decay had not harmed the dead beast, as she placed it lovingly next to the hearth, wrapped in what he then realized was to be her maiden cloak.

He opened his mouth to speak but found producing words were harder than he expected. For centuries, it had been only him and the babes he had turned into Others, there was no need for words when he commanded with silent, icy magics. "Name?" He croaked, startling the woman back to her feet. Her dress was torn, he realized, exposing her milky skin to the elements. He withdrew his cloak from his shoulders and placed it around hers, the warmth of her flesh nearly sizzled his fingertips, he had forgotten the heat that dragons gave off. "What is...her name?"

Rhaenys smiled softly at him, placing her hands over his when he went to withdraw from her, surprising him with her lack of fear, though in the pits of her eyes it was still there, though she was fighting it, desperate to please him, his brave little dragon. She seemed surprised he spoke in present tense rather than the past, though she did not know the plans he had for her, for them.

"I...had never actually named her. She...she died when I was born, my mother told me that the egg cracked open the moment she began to give birth to me and when I breathed for the first time…" Rhaenys trailed off, a sad smile lacing her lips. "I used to dream of riding her, over the waters of home, even over snow, which was strange because I had only read about such weathers. As a child, I simply stared at the corpse, as if I could will the dragon to life. I...I wanted to call her something pretty, a family name perhaps, like Seryna or Jaenara."

The air grew colder as his magic flared, he had not expected her to know Seryna's name, it felt wrong coming from her mouth. He had thought of his Seryna every full moon, reminding him of the night they had met and of the night he had been made into her image.

He withdrew from her then, moving to leave the room, to leave her with her corpse and her fire but she spoke with a spark of fear, "My, my lord! I-" She paused, curtsying so deeply her once fine dress pooled on the floor, "I mean, your grace, I...I did not mean to offend you-"

He cut her off with a raising of his hand, clearing his throat so his voice did not crackle as it had before, "My name is Torrhen." Her eyes were wide, a beautiful blue he could easily drown himself in, so he spun away and out the door before she could see the weakness in his eyes.

Yet he still heard her sweet voice whisper his name, a title he had not spoken himself in nearly three hundred years and his dead heart warmed at her lips forming the word, "Torrhen."

A/N:

I haven't updated this in forever and a half but they did my boy dirty this last episode so I felt like I needed to continue this story. If anyone is still reading, please review so I know it's worth updating again! Also, I'm looking for a beta for any (if not all three) of my fics, so if interested, review or PM as well.


	18. Chapter 18

When Rhaegar awoke, perhaps for the first time since the last was greeted with the sight of a long dead ancestor, it was to Lyanna gasping his name,"Thank the gods, even with the tree burned, they have awnsered my prayers!" The burned tree...his vision mixed with the picture of his dream...his dragon dream, he mused..with what had occurred before the old Weirwood tree. Rhaenys, brandishing a torch as if it were a sword, her servant whispering in a tongue he had never heard anyone speak, the Crows, listening to her commands and not his. Had she planned this, to leave him? His mind had been clouded with lust, her nonwesterosi gowns that presented her flesh as a present to be unwrapped by his eyes and then his hands, her coy smiles and hooded eyes, he had thought her to be playing the game of thrones, but she was playing a different game.

"Ly...an...na" His voice was brittle and cracking, dry from disuse. How long had he been asleep? Another hand thrust a flask into his face, pouring a bitter, earth tasting liquid down his throat before Lyanna's delicate fingers grabbed the flask and tipped gently instead.

"We are a day away from the Wall, unable to travel without you awake." Her voice was hushed, eyes darting distrustfully towards the small retinue of men, those who held no loyalty to them.

"Where's Rhaenys?" Everyone stared at him then, even the small whispers of the forest seemed to still at his question. Lyanna narrowed her eyes and frowned, lips a thin line, while the Crows looked to each other.

"With him." Lyanna spat, "I always assumed it was just a tale. But Old Nan did say every story has truth." She glared hotly at everyone but him, a fierce she-wolf in her own right.

"Him?" Rhaegar parroted, attempting to sit up, though his limbs protested. Everything seemed to ache, despite an obvious wound.

"The pact was forged and the pact has been fulfilled." The Wandering Crow replied ominously, staring into the dying embers where a fire once lay. His gaze was cold, "The bride of Fire for the King of Ice."

"What? She was to marry me, not some foreign king!" Rhaegar shook his head, she was his bride, wasn't she?

The Crows laughed in unison before one spoke, he held a bloody dagger in one palm, a dead rabbit in the other. "He has lived in this land since before you dragon cunts stepped foot upon it. Before the king who knelt, some say his brother was the founder of house Stark, others say it was him and his son took control after the blood magic scared his people. Guess you'd have to ask him yourself to find out."

"He is the product of blood magic, he is no kin of mine!" Lyanna roared, nearly spitting in the Crow's face. She laughed mirthlessly then, "I'd say Others take her but they already have."

Rhaegar just sat there, dumbfounded. Even in the capital, he had heard the legends of the Others, of the Night King, everything was sliding into place in his mind. Rhaenys had run off with...with the demon that parents threatened their children with if they did not behave? Why? What shocked him almost equally was the coldness within Lyanna, her silently fermenting rage. She hovered next to Rhaegar, as if in fear that a Crow would cross them more so than they already had.

"How do you know so much, Crow?" Rhaegar questioned as the fact that they seemed to know more of what had occurred than he did. Lyanna frowned severely, as if she had already known the answer, perhaps had asked already.

"Because the Free Folk have not forgotten. The North remembers." The Wandering Crow replied, as if it were obvious. "The pact has been fulfilled, soon, they shall bring the flame and restore what has been lost."

"There's a myth about the desecrated Stark, who was seduced by an ice witch and tainted with dark magic, who was killed by the Children of the Forest." Lyanna piped in then, arms crossed defensively, "Apparently they didn't succeed."

The Crows all laughed at that, some even shook their heads. It was Rhaegar's turn to scowl then, "Why now, why take my bride, when any daughter of fire would do? Why not Good Queen Alysanne? She was the last Targaryen to visit the Wall."

For all their humor regarding what had occurred, they sombered then, because they did not know that answer. After a beat of silence, the Wandering Crow simply murmured, "She has been chosen and delivered. Best return to your throne of swords and forget about the last daughter of Baelerys. Wed a daughter of Westeros and pray that she spares you both then as she did now."

It all clicked into place then why the Crows continued to guide them back to the Wall, knowing they would lose their heads for what they had done: Rhaenys had ordered the safe return of both Rhaegar and Lyanna, so they obeyed. Even now, the Crows glanced about the trees as if they were being watched, as if someone was ensuring orders were carried out.

"We need more wood." Lyanna ordered suddenly, pointing at two crows and motioning them away. Then she pointed at the other two, "and food, now that the prince is awake, he will need to gather his strength."

They glared coldly at the Stark before standing and wandering into the woods. She took a piece of wood and poked the fire, stirring a touch more warmth from the embers. Only when the sound of boots shuffling away were distant murmurs did she speak softly, still afraid of prying ears, "We saw the Others but that does not mean others will believe us, we can't say the boogie man took your bride, we need another reason to explain her death."

"She isn't dead!" Rhaegar surprised even himself with his reverence in the idea of Rhaenys being alive. "I will raise an army and have her returned to me!"

Lyanna shook her head, leaning back until she jolted forward in pain, causing Rhaegar to notice her arm. The skirt of her dress was torn, exposing her boots, the fabric instead wrapped tightly around her upper arm, cloth stained with dried, crusty blood. "How many lives will you sacrifice for someone who does not wish to return to you?" She was severe, as cold as her homeland but her worry warmed his heart to her.

"She died of a winter chill. Ellyeria did not prepare her for the Wall and she passed after a particularly cold night." Rhaegar relented after a stretch of silence. Let the world believe her dead, he would find her, he would make her his, and together, the dragon will have three heads once more.

A/N:

Thank you so much to those who reviewed! I wrote a Rhaegar chapter since Spicyrash requested to see more of the Silver Prince. If anyone requests anything I usually try to incorporate it into the story if I can (if it doesn't make sense to the plot, sorry haha). Please continue to read and review!!


	19. Chapter 19

Aeyma was not sure if she should be content or petrified, sitting atop a horse of bones and decaying flesh. Craster was nearly upon her, talking of warming cold winter beds and fresh blood to add to the family when a sword thrust itself into his spine. He had gurgled up a mouthful of blood that dribbled from his chin before collapsing to the floor, revealing an Other in his wake. The blue-skinned being held out a hand to her and with a grip as cold as ice, helped her to her feet. There were a handful of them, sending the daughter-wives into dark corners, given away by whimpers of fear. She thought of comforting them, telling them they were safe now, but the words seemed hollow before they even left her lips, so she said nothing.

Instead she allowed herself to be led to the dead steed and mounted it, studying the Others as one wrapped Craster's cloak around her shoulders to keep her warm, she was not fire made flesh as her mistress was, after all. She had studied magic her entire life, groomed by the High Priestess since birth to fulfill the pact, to ensure that Lady Rhaenys reached her betrothed, that they were wedded and bedded so magic could be strong again. It was fading, all those with the gift knew it, where their ancestors could summon flames with a thought, they could only get a spark with the death of another. But there was power in a king's blood, much more than a commoner, so when Rhaegar bled, Aeyma tore a piece of his bloodied shirt from him, kept it clutched to her chest, wondered if she could do what must be done, what the Lord of Light expected of her.

She prayed for most of the ride to where her mistress waited for her, eyes closed and shivering in the cold as snow beat down upon them, raging even more so the closer they got to the rotted castle of the Night King. The blizzard rained down upon her yet she felt a sudden shower of warmth, as though a beam of sun had been aimed right at her, so she opened her eyes and stifled a gasp. The horses, the undead men upon them, even the castle, was cloaked in a bright blue glow, twisting and turning like blood pumping through a heart, magic visible before her eyes. One of the Others raised a fist into the air and she could not help but watch in awe as a tendril of icy magic flew into the air, invisible to all but her but felt by all nonetheless, a pulse reverberating through the air, followed by a lighter one made visible by a darker bolt of blue, a response, a welcome. When they entered into the keep of the castle, Rhaenys was descending down the stairs, a palpable look of relief to see a familiar face.

But all Aeyma could focus on was the air around her Lady, she was...glowing, not an inch of flesh without the bright red aura of magic, stretching out behind her, reaching towards something, no, someone. When Aeyma saw the Night King, she knew the Lord of Light had answered her prayers, for he had the same glow as Rhaenys, only a dark blue, which stretched out longingly towards Rhaenys, seemingly begging to mix the red and blue together.

"Your eyes have been opened." The scratchy voice of the Night King commented and she quickly fell onto her knees in submission and humility.

"I...I-I, yes, your grace." Unsure of what to say or how to even address him, she simply bowed her head. Her purpose would be fulfilled soon.

A/N:

Short chapter, wanted to dip into Aeyma's head a bit to show why she's in the story as well as how she fits. If you remember from previous chapters, she's from Assaih, the land of blood magic. Please review! Also, would it be better if I replied to reviews? I know other authors do but I wasn't sure if with my fics it'd be cool or annoying.


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